


Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

by milollita, OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Language, Black Market pharmaceuticals Kidnappings, Body Horror, Bucky tries to be Protective Bucky, F/M, Illegal Medical Experiments, M/M, Multi, Protective Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve, Snarky Bucky, Snarky Steve, Torture, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Violence, Werewolf Steve Rogers, otpprompts, the author is a horrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:11:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milollita/pseuds/milollita, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Person A of your OTP is a vampire and is next in line to lead the clan. Person B is a lone werewolf who was kicked out of their pack (you decide why). One night, person A goes on a hunting trip by themselves, but end up getting caught in some sort of trap. They are stuck there for however many days until they are nearly starving to death. Person B finds them and, instead of killing them like anyone else from their pack would, they hunt for food for person A and try to help them. Although person A is very unsure/terrified of person B at first, they are so starving that they accept the food with next to no hesitation, despite being raised to never trust werewolves.Bucky was hoping for a savior, sure. There were better ways for him to spend his time than waiting in a five-by-five cell, waiting to have thelifeblood drained out of him for corporate profit.He just wasn’t expecting his savior to be small enough to tuck into his hip pocket, with such a crazy look in his eye. Or naked. He was breathing hard, bony chest heaving, and he was dripping all over Bucky’s floor, gripping something weird in his hand.Afinger.“So. You want out, right?”





	1. I'll Gladly Pay You Tuesday for a Jugular Today

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally my Big Bang 2017 entry. Things went a little sideways due to some things that I had going on, so it's not part of the main collection. My artist is the wonderfully talented [milolloita](http://archiveofourown.org/users/milollita/pseuds/milollita), and I received beta reading assistance from the equally talented and kind PRZed.

"Okay. So, _this sucks._ " Bucky's voice was an exhausted, rusty rasp that bounced off the metal walls of the empty cell. His arms were stiff as he reached up to probe a sore spot on his lip, then found out it was split. Was that the least of his worries? It was definitely the least of his _injuries_ as he rolled onto his back, unsure if he could sit up yet. Bucky cracked open his eyes, and the light overhead burned into his pupils. "Great," he hissed under his breath. "Somebody doesn't believe in 'ambience.'"  
　  
He let them droop shut again and focused on his breath and surroundings. The floor beneath him was freezing, and the cell wasn't temperate, either, but at least the cold didn't affect him. Bucky hadn't been warm-blooded in over two centuries. He wouldn't catch the shivers, certainly, but being physically thrown there hadn't exactly tickled; it was still _hard_ , right?  
　  
Bucky's bruises had bruises. His ribs throbbed where they’d kicked him, and his limbs were covered in lacerations and cuts. There was a puncture wound - how silly of him, Bucky realized, assuming his lip was only _split_ \- where his fang had pushed all the way through the flesh when they hit him with the baton.

Bucky needed to sleep for a week. Maybe two. He needed to build up his reserves if he wanted to heal, and more importantly, he needed to feed. Long, greedy and deep, at least a couple of pints. The worst part about being grabbed off the street was having his meal interrupted. Bucky groaned in disgust.

Stark would laugh his ass off the next time he saw him. (He told the dubious voice in his mind to fuck off when it piped up with, “If. _If_ you see him.”) No. He’d see him, and Tony would give him that shit-eating grin and tell Bucky he was an easy mark. Because _that_ never got old. Stark had fifty years on Bucky, and he’d spent at least that long holding Bucky a captive audience for his rants, and subjecting him to his obnoxious music. Anthony Stark had survived three centuries, countless wars, seen the end of diseases such as scarlet fever and cholera, had even watched the Wright Brothers’ maiden flight at Kitty Hawk, and witnessed the masters of classical music compose the symphonies of the ages…

...yet, he played _nothing_ but eighties’ metal on his stereo at the compound.

Bucky heard the scratch of work shoes scuffing in the corridor. His internal clock told him it was still the middle of the night. His cell had no windows, because of _course_. Three men, judging by the weight of their footsteps. One was a smoker. And he had an unfortunate preference for Old Spice. One of them had the temerity to knock before the door squealed its way open, letting in a draft of even colder air that was somehow no less stale than the cell’s. 

The white lab coats were no surprise. Bucky smelled chlorhexidine soap and iodine prep on the one wearing safety goggles strapped atop his head, disheveling unremarkable brown hair, and his fingers were stained yellow. The most senior of the three smiled benignly down at Bucky as he edged himself up to his elbow. His visitor held out a quelling hand.

“No. Relax. No need to get up.”

“Kind of is a need, pal. Gotta piss. Where’s the little boys’ room?”

“In the corner.” Bucky found himself on the business end of shrewd, narrow blue eyes webbed in fine wrinkles. This man knew how to laugh, perhaps not kindly. There was no commode, only a shallow drain set into the floor with a metal grille. Bucky wrinkled his nose. “I know the accommodations aren’t as glamorous as you’re used to, but you’ll love our hospitality.” The third man was sandy-haired and slender, and his face plagued Bucky with how familiar it seemed. He glanced at Bucky, and then looked away quickly, as though he didn’t want Bucky to suspect-

“You were his wing man. Weren’t you?” Bucky said, squinting up at him. “Sonofabitch. You were, right? You lured me!”

“Lured? Perhaps. It was effective, wasn’t it?”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what your kind does, isn’t it? The lust isn’t just for blood, is it? You like the hunt, don’t you?”

“This ain’t the time to get kinky, pal.”

“God, you disgust me.”

“Hey. I’m a guy who likes to party.” Bucky bared his teeth and extended his fangs, just for show. “Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it, asshole.”

“No, thanks. There are some questions I don’t need answered.” He sounded so smug. Bucky sucked his teeth in annoyance, not enjoying the flavor of his own blood. 

Bucky turned to the man who enticed him into following him behind the scruffy bar downtown. "You're lucky you're cute."  
　  
He huffed back at Bucky, unimpressed, but the way he shrank inward on himself beneath Bucky's gaze suggested guilt and a wave of fear. "You were too easy. You always are." "You," in this case, meaning all blood feeders.  
　  
"Hungry," Bucky countered. "Don't flatter yourself, 'kay? I was _hungry_. I wondered why you were such a cheap date." Because Bucky read the man's obvious signals, crossed the crowded bar, and signaled to the bartender that their drinks were on him. Bucky still enjoyed tequila, even though it didn't have the same effect on him, anymore; all it offered him was a spike of warmth in his veins, briefly, but it still didn't rival blood. “I still have _standards_.”  
　  
"Time's-a-wasting, gentlemen," murmured Lab Coat. His expression was amused, but impatience flashed in his steely eyes. They were webbed with wrinkles, reflecting a man who laughed frequently. Through Bucky's haze of pain, he made out the name "Pierce, Alexander" on his plastic security badge. He wisely chose to pin it to his coat pocket instead of wearing it on a lanyard around his neck. That told Bucky that this man worked in institutional settings, before. He wasn't careless enough to hand patients - inmates - with an open invitation to throttle him.  
　  
Too bad.  
　  
"Take him to the lab." He waved Bucky off as his assistants moved toward him, revealing slim, deceptively harmless manacles. But Bucky noticed the small, red sensors on them, glowing and charged. Not good.  
　  
"Sorry it didn't work out, bloodsucker." Prince Charming smirked at Bucky's attempts to creep back toward the corner of the cell. "I've got someone at home."  
　  
"Then, they're gonna miss you."  
　  
The manacles emitted a shock that made Bucky's blood feel like it was on fire. Not how he planned to spend a Saturday night.

The corridors were dark, which didn’t hurt Bucky’s ability to take in his surroundings, certainly, but it _did_ make it harder to read signs on doors and cells and to plan an escape route. He was dragged into the lab, just as frigid as the cell but more spacious. Everything was steel, vinyl and enamel, with pipes snaking down from the ceiling, starkly illuminated by the skylight. Bucky saw the stars through it, mocking him for his foolishness.

The rest of the coven would throw a fit.

As they fought Bucky onto the metal table and strapped him down, one of the technicians donned full PPEs, including a pair of broad safety goggles. He fiddled with IV poles and a tray of syringes, lined up neatly beside a row of purple-capped test tubes and collection bags. Bucky jerked against the restraints, but he kept up his banter to stave off his terror.

“Kinky bastards,” he told them. “At least buy a guy dinner first.”

“Sorry we interrupted your meal,” Pierce assured him. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re about to help us shape history and help humanity.”

“What’s humanity ever done for me?”

That made Pierce chuckle. Then, he told the technician, “Hook him up.”

*

“Subject five-six-eight-two. Adult werewolf. Male. Fully developed.”

“You sure? He’s gotta be the runt of the litter.”

This was met by low, guttural growling and thrashing against the bars. “He’s sure a scrapper.”

“Not for long. C’mere, Fido, come have some night-night juice.” The attendant brandished a syringe that gleamed in the low light. “That’s a good boy.” The attendant unlocked the cell and ventured inside, garbed in a safety suit with reinforced sleeves and mitts, goggles and a cowl that obscured his face.

The werewolf was smaller than a typical adult, limbs thin and rangy, body covered in sandy fur. He was growling and barking, hurling himself against the bars until the attendant approached. “Awwwww. That’s not how to act if you want a treat, fella. Don’t be naughty.”

“I like it when they fight. Makes it more fun.”

“Don’t be an asshole. C’mon. You’d treat your dog that way?”

“This thing’s not a dog, dumb ass.”

“Pfffft. Right. Sure he’s not.”

“Don’t act for a second like you think this thing’s the same as a dog. Fido here’ll rip your head off if you get too close.” The guard approached the wolf with an electrified prod that glowed and crackled slightly, and the creature smothered a howling mewl, then snarled at them again. The guard jammed the prod into the creature’s ribcage, just to make it yelp and to get his point across. The creature recoiled, then lunged at the bars again. 

“Stay down!”

The creature whuffed, then flickered and shifted momentarily into its transitional form. He was still short and bony, but his eyes… instead of the eerie gray typical in shifters, his eyes were blue as tourmalines.

“I can do this all day, asshole.” His voice was more growl than anything else, and his teeth were jagged, bloody snags in his mouth. Craggy brows glared at them, and his clawed fingers curled around the bars. 

“Shit…” He hit the thing with his prod again, shocking him back into shifting back into something less human. More disposable.

It was going to be a long night.

*

“October nineteenth, oh-two-hundred hours. Subject five-six-eight-two. John Doe, age twenty-four. Our assumptions that he’d only yield weak stock might not hold up. Subject shows physical strength typical of his breed contrary to appearances. Subject is five feet, five inches and weighs seventy-one kilos. Last lab draw shows anemia and low white blood cell counts, but even his levels have been inconsistent since his arrival. Bone stock is dense and of decent quality. A sampling of a spur taken from his left foot showed excellent regeneration when we subjected it to various stresses in a controlled setting. This bodes well for possible harvest and-”  
Pierce’s assistant, Essex, paused in his dictation at the sound of the door sliding open, and he glanced up in irritation. “I need to get my impressions down. I told the girl at the desk i didn't want to be interrupted. Might be easier to show my boss what i’ve been working on if I can finish my report. And get _paid._.”

His rangy, swarthy guest folded well-muscled arms smirked at him and cocked one heavy, dark brow. “Calm down. Your boss sent me to make sure you stop by the lab. He’s got a panel he wants to run on the specimens he took off the last leech.”

Essex frowned and waved him away. “That can wait.”

“The hell it can. When Pierce tells you to run the panel, you _do_ it.”

“I don't report to Pierce.”

“Sure, you don’t.” He approached the metal table and leaned his hip against it, making it roll slightly on its casters and earning himself a dirty look.

“Get the fuck out of there, Rumlow!” The test tubes rattled ominously, making the samples inside them slosh and streak the glass. Essex removed the petri dish containing the bone spur fragment out from beneath the microscope lens and set it on the table, covering it with a metal lid. Rumlow’s smirk didn’t lapse with the warning.

He hovered over Essex, eyes flitting toward the door for a moment before they pinned him. “Listen. Hey. Listen. Pierce is your boss. He’s _the_ boss. He told you to get the fuck into the lab. Go get those blood samples from that leech. Run that panel. Shit, I don’t care if he tells you to jerk it off and get it on camera. You’ll do it.”

He disturbed the samples even more when he straightened up. “See what happens if you take your sweet time with that fancy report.” Rumlow edged into Essex’ space, and he fought the urge to recoil, merely glaring up into that dark gaze.

“See what happens when McCoy asks why the data isn’t accurate on his latest subject. He won’t be happy.”

Rumlow’s smirk evaporated. Then he backed off and turned on his heel.

“Hurry the fuck up.” He threw that over his shoulder as he left the room.

Essex finished dictating and turned off the micro-recorder. He set it down and rubbed his eyes, sighing. 

“I appreciate your dedication.”

McCoy’s smooth baritone made him nearly jump out of his skin. He’d approached soundlessly, something that should have been impossible for someone so large and cumbersome looking. Henry McCoy looked even bulkier in the pristine, white lab coat. His long, dark sheaves of glossy black hair appeared bluish under the lights, held back from his face by a pair of safety goggles. “Rumlow’s not bright. That doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous. I won’t have you risk yourself.”

“I risk myself every time I punch the clock.”

McCoy’s large hand settled over his shoulder. Essex fought the urge to shiver. “We’re going to change history. Your work will change the face of humanity. We’ll make it stronger. Better. There’s no room for being squeamish. Or for feeling threatened.” His dulcet tone held an edge, his words couching the subtle warning of _Fear me far more than you do Alexander Pierce._ “I can download the transcript and input it. Time to move on. Go visit our guest in the lab. Show them you play well with others.”

Essex reluctantly stood and exited the suite. McCoy turned to the table of samples and picked up the petri dish, uncapping it. He shook it slightly, letting the mounting solution ooze a little as he tipped it up to the light. He slid it back under the microscope and bent down to examine it, increasing the resolution.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Remarkable. Let Pierce play with his toys. He can’t have mine.”

The bone fragment’s cells, despite being removed from their host, were slowly multiplying.

McCoy inputted the transcript, pausing occasionally to re-run it and making notations. Essex was ambitious and sharp. 

He’d keep him, for a while.

*

Subject five-six-eight-two was too feisty to stay down, and his tormentors were enjoying his struggle and the odors of singed flesh and fur too much to notice that his wounds were healing rapidly. He was crouched, growling and clutching his ribs. His blood dripped onto the concrete floor. His foot was still oozing from the small puncture; blood had poured from it before.

“You made a big mess, Fido.” 

“Guess you’d… better call housekeeping, then. Genius.”

“McCoy wants you alive. Tonight’s your lucky night.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Here’s your dinner.” The guard reached into the metal crate and pulled out something that smelled pungent and earthy, and against his volition, Steve’s mouth watered, fangs extending with the urge to bite and tear, to sink into warm, fresh meat. He threw it across the cell, and Steve ignored his injuries and lunged for it, falling upon it. His taloned fingers sank into it, and he tore off enormous bites of the raw elk venison, barely taking the time to chew. They’d starved him for days, only allowing him water often enough to keep him alive. Crawling.

He finished it quickly while they looked on disgust from the doorway, prods powered down. “McCoy says he has enough for tonight.”

“I’m gonna hafta think twice about those tap dancing lessons, now. Tell him I hope he’s happy.” Steve glared balefully over the edge of the meat, mouth streaked with blood. 

“Oh, he’s thrilled. Two of you are gonna have fun, Fido.”

“Steve. My name’s _Steve._ ”

“Think I care what your name is?” The guard tapped the small plaque on the wall beside the cell. “Five-six-eight-two. Male subject. That’s all you are t’me. And you’re scum. Let’s not forget that. No one’s gonna miss you.”

“Got that right,” Steve said wryly, shrugging his bony shoulders. “But I still want you to remember my name.” 

“Why’s that, Fido?” The guard was enjoying himself.

Steve grinned. “Because I’m gonna carve it in your ass on my way out of here, that’s why.”

The guard’s smile dropped. “Did you just… you think you can take me?”

“You and your buddy.” Steve licked his talon, sucking off a stray fragment of the cold meat. They didn’t pause to think for a minute before handing Steve his ticket out of there.

Fuel.

“You think you’re bad? Huh? You told me you could do this all day. C’mon. Let’s dance.”

“You’re gonna make me dance with you on my bad foot?”

They opened the cell door, letting it slide open with a resounding clang. The prods thrummed back to life, and they grinned down at him.

“Here, Fido. C’mere, boy…”

Steve’s blue eyes flashed yellow, and he growled low, at first.

And in moments, _pandemonium_.

Steve shifted faster than they could blink, and he lunged at the first guard, evading the prod, maw gaping and lined with rows of cruel, piercing teeth. Steve relished the horror dawning in his eyes as those teeth tore into the guard’s throat. He thrashed and fought, prod clattering as it hit the floor. He gurgled as his blood sprayed the cell walls.

“Fuck! FUCK! You crazy…! No! NO! Get BA-!” The prod hummed and sparked as he drove it into Steve’s side again, but the creature - there was no calling him a man, now - slashed the prod out of his grip and it went flying into the corridor, still sparking and glowing where it lay.

The rest of the complex didn’t sound the alarms until the guard in the monitor room looked up from his magazine and caught the feed from that cell. “Shit… aw, man. Pierce is gonna have my ass.”

The klaxons rang, hazard lights blaring in every corridor of the building.

Pierce looked up from the bag of plasma that he was labeling with the subject number and date and sighed. “Never a dull night.” He nodded to Rumlow. “Go. Secure that wing. Make sure nothing gets out. Even if you have to put it out of its misery.”

“You sure McCoy will be okay with that?”

“I don’t care what he thinks. This is _my_ facility. Go. Lock it down.”

Rumlow took his gun from the holster on his thigh and loaded it with a new clip as he left the lab.

Pierce smiled down at Bucky and shrugged. “We were making so much progress.”

Bucky gazed up at him dully, wan, flesh cooling by the minute.

*

 

Steve’s howls were arcane and earsplitting, and they were filled with triumph.

He loped out of the cell as fast as his bad foot would allow, clutching the gruesome souvenir in his hand. Some statements had to be made. Steve’s priorities realigned after so many days without food. He wasn’t the best coffee date at the moment. If he was still part of the pack, Sam would shake his head at him and tell him, “Dude, you have _no chill_.” Steve missed him so much.

That was the worst part of being alone. 

He ran, surveying the corridor. Steve managed to duck into a storage closet, and he found a rough pair of olive drab coveralls. A janitor’s suit, from the looks of it. Close enough. Sure beat being naked. Steve jerked it on and zipped the front, but it still hung on him, and the too-long pants cuffs would trip him up. “Shit.” He gave up on it, deciding he’d have an easier time without it. In his transitional form, his fur would keep him warm enough, but it offended his sensibilities to look wild like this. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed beyond being hosed down.

He encountered another guard who he managed to take down before he could chamber his first round. Older, and heavy. Smelled like he’d just eaten a burrito. 

*

Bucky’s head was ringing. 

Until he realized it wasn’t. It was the alarms.

“Ow…” He winced and struggled to roll to his side. They’d rolled him on the gurney back to the cell and then just dumped him there. Bucky was so cold… so _empty_. And Pierce… he’d toyed with him. Dribbled a few drops of Bucky’s own blood over his cracked, open lips just to taunt him.

“Turn it… down, damn it. Some of us’re tryin’ to sleep.”

Bucky heard thudding footfalls rushing past and the sounds of cell doors sliding and slamming shut. That didn’t bode well. The alarms continued to blare, and he clutched his head, groaning. “C’mon!” he shouted. “Knock it off!”

It was like waking up with a post-tequila hangover. No, scratch that. Tequila and Jaegermeister.

The screams should have concerned him. And the reversal of the footfalls, they were coming _back_ toward him. “What…?”

No. Just one set of feet and breathless panting. “ _Shitshitshitshitshit!!!!_ ”

“Hey, buddy, turn it down!” Bucky cried after him. “Please?”

Bucky heard shots fired, just two, and the sounds of rounds being chambered before metal hit the floor, interrupted by growls that sent shivers down his spine. That woke him up.

Creeper. An adult. Male.

Small, his brain supplied.

Bucky managed to crawl toward the cell door, attempting to use the bars to pull himself up. From down the corridor, he saw flashes of light - more gunfire, and those prods, he knew them well - and shadows against the wall. Multiple bodies rushing toward the creeper. Multiple bodies being knocked aside, and to Bucky’s revulsion, torn to pieces.

“Oh. That’s not good.”

For perhaps the only time since his arrival, Bucky was glad he was safely locked in his cell.

The sounds died down to low cries and rattling breaths, as well as the whuffling of the beast. Bucky heard it moving up the corridor toward him, and he braced himself, abandoning his effort to stand in favor of edging back into the corner, away from the ominous-looking drain that Pierce taunted him with before. He knew it was futile. The creature could _smell_ him. And Bucky’s common sense knew that creepers - werewolves - normally minded their business, for the most part. Just like a dog, but… not. You didn’t tease a dog that was only guarding its territory or its owner. You put yourself on their level, and gave them respect, or you gave them space. Plain and simple.

The footsteps were uneven. One foot sounded like it was dragging. Bucky smelled so much blood on it, from multiple sources, and it was driving him a little crazy, making him dizzy. He tried to quiet his breathing, but he knew the thing could hear him. Smell him. Bucky could be one more life on this guy’s quota for the night. Yet, some part of him held out hope. Futile hope that maybe there was one person in this deathtrap who didn’t want to torture him and drain him to a very permanent death.

 

So, Bucky was hoping for a savior, sure. There were better ways for him to spend his time than waiting in a five-by-five cell, waiting to have the ~~life~~ blood drained out of him for corporate profit. Because that’s what it was about: Profit.

He just wasn’t expecting his saviour to be small enough to tuck into his hip pocket, with such a crazy look in his eye. Or naked. He was breathing hard, bony chest heaving, and he was dripping all over the floor outside of Bucky’s cell, gripping something weird in his hand.  
A _finger_.

“So. You want out, right?”

“Uh.”

“Make up your mind, pal. I ain’t got all night.”

“Are you gonna-”

“No. Are you kidding me? Look, just… do you want out, or not?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded, licking his cracked lips. “Get me the hell out of here.”

Steve fiddled with the panel and managed to crack the lock code, and the cell door slid open. “Buddy, you look like hell.”

“Bucky…”

“What?” The little guy limped inside and reached for him. His grip was rough and stronger than Bucky expected as he hauled him up by the arm. His blue eyes - wow, they were _really_ blue - roved over him with concern.

“Bucky. I’m… Bucky.”

“Oh. Right. I’m. Steve.”

“Hey, Steve.”

“They starved you, didn’t they?”

“Among other things, yeah. This ain’t the Ritz.”

“God. Bucky. There’s nothing to you. I can see your veins.”

“Naw. You kidding me right now? I’m ready to hit the clubs. Whoooooo…”

“No. Don’t.” Steve huffed as he shouldered his way under Bucky’s arm and wrapped his around his waist, and Bucky continued to be surprised at how easily Steve managed to support him, even though a) he was tiny, b) he was covered in burns and lacerations, and c) he risked dying from exposure and hypothermia once they made their way outside. It was a brisk October night, and those were cold in New York. And Bucky wouldn’t throw stones, but he stunk to high heaven.

“Gotta promise me you won’t bite me if I take you with me.”

“Oh, my God. Seriously?” Steve and Bucky stumbled out of the cell and into the corridor. “You’re carrying a guy’s finger, and I’m gonna bite YOU?”

“Just gotta make one last stop.”

“Where?”

“Pierce’s office.”

“No. Steve. Don’t. That guy’s _psycho_.”

“No. He’s a bully. There’s a difference.” Steve huffed a laugh. “Now, McCoy. Don’t know if you’ve met _him_. That guy, he’s a psycho.” Bucky was relieved that Steve’s body was surprisingly warm, too, as well as strong, and the feel of his slightly furry flesh was driving away the chill that plagued him for so long. If it had been any other place, under better circumstances, Bucky might have enjoyed the closeness.

But.

_But._

“Pierce, he does this for the money. McCoy does it for the fun of it. That makes him a psycho.”

“I guess.”

“That’s the difference in their motivation. It doesn’t matter. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”

“Lead the way.”

They found Pierce’s office, the first turn out of the service elevator. Bucky wondered how Steve knew the security code to unlock it. How long had Steve been there? He was so thin. He had some half-healed scars, and his skin was mottled with bruises. Steve had so much blood in his hair that Bucky couldn’t even tell what color it was. They dragged themselves into the plush office space, and Steve didn’t care that they were ruining the carpet.

“Here ya go, you bastard,” Steve muttered as he set the finger down on Pierce’s desk blotter.

“That’s rude.”

“More rude than letting McCoy take a chunk of bone out of my foot?”

“Maybe not...that rude. Sorry.”

“S’okay. You didn’t do this.”

“No. I was just out for a night on the town.”

Steve scrawled a note on the blotter in large, slashing letters. “Okay. I’m good. Let’s go.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I run hot.”

“Well… good.”

And just for the hell of it, Steve triggered a few more cell locks on his way out. Pierce’s goons were going to have their work cut out for them.

https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4376/36224471440_62a7ba5752_b.jpg [](http://imgur.com/ylS3G2f)


	2. What Big Teeth You Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vampire clan’s favored son. The werewolf pack’s outcast. What could they possibly have in common?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s no excuse for this. Except that I LOVE werewolf/vampire fiction, and I almost did something like this years ago for Logan/Remy, since that is the other fandom that gave me life for a long time. This may be the Twilighty-Undergroundish fic that nobody asked for, but I hope it makes a few people eventually ask for more.

Bucky woke up alone, aching, and bitterly cold. The hunger gripped him, and his eyes were glowing faintly red. He was on a floor again, but this one was musty, made of rotting wooden boards that hadn’t been swept in who knew how long. In irritation, he brushed off the ants that crept over him. Faint light shone inside through the cracked windowpanes. Wherever he was, it was still night time, but wouldn’t be for long. That was a lantern hung by the window outside. This was a hunter’s rest stop, as far as Bucky could tell, or a squat. The autumn wind howled outside, and bit by bit, Bucky got his bearings and started to remember the events of the night.

Pierce.

Guards. More of them tried to stop them. Bucky’s lips were tinged with blood from one of them. Its coppery remnants lingered. Guy from the monitor room, Bucky remembered. Young. Well-fed. Tasted like he ate a lot of citrus. He’d just taken a taste before casting him aside and sending him scuttling off with a leaking jugular.

And Steve didn’t judge him. Just pulled him along, the two of them running out into the woods.

They made their way across about two miles of brush and trees until they finally reached a clearing. Bucky’s vision was gray, despite his nocturnal faculties and spatial awareness that normally made movement in the wee hours natural and easy. None of it was working. Not while he was weak and starving. Steve’s body and face were a blur to him.

It was too bad. He was pretty cute.

Steve pushed him inside a shabby looking shack whose door hinges squealed. “Here. Just… lie down, okay? I’m sorry it’s not much. It’s… it’s where I come when I change. On full moons. Those nights… get kinda crazy.”

“‘Kay.” Bucky sank down to the floor and lay down, limp with exhaustion. “Gonna… tell me a story?”

Steve chuckled. “What kinda story do you want?”

“One that ends happy. With a good guy in it.”

“I’m not good at telling stories.”

“Don’t, then.”

“Rest, okay? I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Don’t,” Bucky whined. “Don’ go. They’ll get you.”

“They won’t. I know my way around. I have connections. I’ll come back, I promise. Okay?”

“I don’t want them to get you.”

“They won’t,” Steve repeated, with more emphasis. “I can manage.” In the dark, Steve’s eyes looked like jewels. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been getting by on my own this long.”

“Not… s’posed to. You’re a wolf. Run in packs. All… creepers do.”

 _Creeper._ Brilliant.

Bucky was one of _those_ vampires. Specist. Just what Steve needed right now.

“Not all of ‘em, pal. Not me.” Then Steve had a thought. “Hey. Look. You’re gonna need to protect yourself while I’m gone.” He nodded to the tall cabinet in the corner. “There’s a twelve-gauge in there, if you need it. It’s loaded and ready if anyone but me tries to let themselves in.”

Bucky sobered. “You use it to hunt?”

“No. I hunt, but… not with that. That’s ‘just in case.’”

In that instant, Bucky stopped himself from blurting out, _I want to tear whoever it was who made you like this to pieces._ Werewolves followed certain rules, but running in a pack kept them safe. If Steve needed to keep a loaded shotgun in his “safe place,” then the world had done him wrong. So wrong.

In a twinkling, Steve shifted into his full, lupine form, joints bending, nose lengthening into a snout, and ears twisting and sliding to the top of his head. He shook himself thoroughly once he stood on all fours, in all of his glory. He had tannish-blonde fur with darker brown markings around his ears and scruff, a snowy white underbelly, and otherworldly blue eyes. His body was rangy and slender, with power in his shoulder muscles and legs.

He was so beautiful that Bucky’s breath caught.

Before Bucky could speak to him again, he darted off, running full speed into the dark.

“Oh. Okay. That just happened.”

Bucky rolled back onto his back and just breathed, listening to the night sounds and trying to drown out the memories of footsteps on concrete, gunshots, screams, the crackle of the prods… it was impossible to center himself after his ordeal. Life… _afterlife_ as a vampire was never simple, but Bucky could do without being kidnapped, tortured and drained. Werewolves lived and functioned together in packs. A vampire coven served a similar purpose. It provided structure. Regulated their comings and goings. Promised punishment for those who disrupted things in their community. His coven would know soon enough what happened to him, and who was responsible. And there would be hell to pay, even if Bucky himself refused to rain it down on Pierce’s head.

Bucky was starving. Weak. He needed rest, if he couldn’t have fuel yet. Even though cold didn’t bother him (much), he craved the feeling of blankets wrapped around him, wanting their tactile luxury and the safety they promised. He curled up on his side and let his eyes drift shut, expelling a long sigh. He ran his memories back on a slow reel, recalling the one that haunted him the most: The night he was turned, when his entire life had lost its definition and purpose, and when Bucky had ceased walking in the sun.

He fell into a troubled doze that didn’t bring any relief. Perhaps a couple of hours passed until he heard paws padding through the grass and low, panting whuffles. Bucky scrubbed his face, glad that he saw Steve through less hazy vision, but he was still weak. “Hey.” Steve’s eyes glowed in the fading moonlight, and he held a small, furry beast in his jaws. The creature still struggled, but not much. Fresh blood. Bucky salivated, and the red light of hunger crept over his irises, hiding the blue. Steve trotted inside the shed and proudly dropped the rabbit onto Bucky’s chest, then stared at him expectantly.

“Oh, God, finally!” He grabbed the rabbit before it could scuttle away by the ears, exposing its throat, and he bit deeply into it, freeing the warm, pungent blood. Bucky groaned in relief as he sucked down the thick liquid while the rabbit twitched and kicked, and while he dined, Steve changed back to his transitional form. He backed away, and Bucky noticed that Steve looked hungry, too. He was so thin. A wolf with no pack wouldn’t have broad hunting privileges or access to sanctioned territories, and Bucky felt a wave of sympathy. He drained the rabbit, wiping at the dribbles that ran down his chin and neck, and he tossed it over to Steve. “I know how to share.”

“Good thing for you, pal.”

“You’re welcome.”

“ _You’re_ welcome.” And Steve went to the opposite corner of the shed, turning his back on Bucky as he dispatched the rabbit in his wolf form, hunching over the fresh meat. Bucky turned away, too, having no appetite for watching him eat the offal. 

Bucky’s senses began to cooperate. His eyes picked out the fine details of all the objects in the room and beyond; he could count the veins in the wing of a fly where it rested against an oak about thirty feet behind Steve. And his hearing sharpened, too. He could hear Steve’s heartbeat, including a faint murmur and uneven beats.

“Were you sick, before?” Bucky blurted out. Steve looked up from licking the streaks of blood from his muzzle, and Bucky was rewarded with his low chuckle as he transitioned back.

“Yeah. Sure was, and not much changed. I'm stronger, and faster. And I can heal pretty fast when they cut me.”

Bucky felt anger flare in his chest. “They’ve done this more than once?” His jaw tightened, and he felt his fangs refused to retract with the change in his mood.

“M’small. M’alone. And nobody’ll miss me.”

“Like hell, they won’t.”

Steve shrugged, but Bucky saw the resignation in that gesture and in his expression. “I don’t have anyone,” he said quietly. 

“Yes, you do.” Steve shook his head, but Bucky nodded his and held up his hand when Steve attempted to argue with him. “You have me.”

Steve’s brows drew together. “I have… you?” His tone carried a whole suitcase full of _You gotta be shittin’ me._

“You saved me. That’s a blood debt.”

Steve huffed.

“You know what that means, right? I’m indebted to you.”

“You’re a vamp.”

“I am. And we live by certain rules. The elders take blood debts pretty seriously in my coven.”

“But that only applies to other vampires.”

“No. It doesn’t. It applies to ‘creatures.’ The contract isn’t specific about what kind.”

“So, what, then? You’re indebted to me. What does that even mean?”

“Well,” Bucky informed him, “it kinda means you’re stuck with me.”

Steve’s hackles literally went up. Bucky spared him the indignity of laughing at the look of confused exasperation on his face.

*

Bucky was still weak, and dawn was approaching. Both of them saw indigo infiltrating the inky black sky, and they heard the beginnings of morning birds. “Are you gonna make it home?” Steve asked when Bucky closed his eyes again.

“They blindfolded me when they threw me into the truck,” Bucky admitted. “I can’t afford to get lost this close to sunrise.”

“Then, I guess you’re bunking with me.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose.

“I know it ain’t the Ritz,” Steve told him, sighing. “But don’t say no, yet. C’mere.” Steve headed for the back of the shed, and Bucky heard the creak of a hasp being unlocked, then the low thud of wood on wood. “There’s a cellar. It’s… my dad built it. It’s, it’s kind of meant to be a safe room-”

“Shit.” Bucky wobbled to his feet, and Steve hurried to catch him, and to Bucky’s consternation, Steve’s skin slowly appeared from beneath the fur, and his face shifted back to human. Still blood-smeared and exhausted, but there he was. Steve helped Bucky stand, looping his arm around Steve’s shoulders and urging him toward the bulkhead door in the floor. 

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“Guess not.” Bucky didn’t want to admit that he felt faint, still a pint too low, but the bulkhead smelled old and mildewy, maybe even like something crawled into it and died at some point. But, it was dark inside. Even when the sun shone in through the cracked windows, Bucky would be able to sleep without being exposed. Vulnerable. 

Flammable.

“It’s cramped down there,” Bucky muttered.

“Thought your kind liked that.”

Bucky gave him a disgusted look. “You’ve been watching too many bad movies, pal. You think I sleep in a fucking crypt, don’t you? A coffin? You’re assuming I rose out of the grave three days after I got bitten?”

“Pffft. No… of course not.” But Steve’s tone was a little sheepish.

“Yeah, you did, ya punk.”

“No, I didn’t! Jerk!”

“You _know_ you did.” And Bucky gave him such a fierce stink-eye that Steve backed down from his argument.

“Oh… yeah. Yeah, I did, a little.”

“God, you’re worse than a flesh bag.”

“That wasn’t nice.”

“You really want me to crawl in there?” Bucky was still hesitating, because that small shelter creeped him out.

“It’s not that bad,” Steve said softly, and he was still holding onto him, one skinny arm wrapped around Bucky’s waist, and his other hand gripping Bucky’s wrist to keep him upright. But his thumb stroked Bucky’s wrist. “I’ve spent a day or three down there, myself.”

That chastened Bucky.

“Well, God… okay. Fine. But, y’know what? Don’t tell anybody about this. About me… fuck. About me being in the _fucking ground_.”

“It’s just a cellar.”

“It’s _humiliating._ ”

“God, you’re emotional, buddy.” But he guided Bucky into the cellar, down the short set of stairs. “Hope you didn’t have to be at work.”

“No. This was my Saturday. Fuck.” Because Pierce stole that from him, too. Even when you were undead, weekends took _forever_ to arrive. “Hey. I don’t. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I’m sorry if I’ve been an ass?”

Steve guided him to the rearmost corner and helped him slide down to the floor. Steve crouched beside him, elbows propped on his knees. “Did you eat enough?”

“For now. I feel less like my stomach’s trying to claw itself out of my body, so. Yeah.”

“Sorry it wasn’t more.”

“No. Don’t be sorry, okay? That was… you went out and risked yourself to feed me. You _helped_ me. I know you didn’t have to-”

“Yes, I did.” Steve awkwardly reached out and patted Bucky’s limp wrist. “I smelled you from the end of the hall. I knew what they had to have done to you. I can smell, like, sickness? And injuries? I know that sounds weird, but, it’s a thing I can do. It’s a thing. Right. Anyway, I’m gonna figure out my clothing situation. That means heading home. The urge is gone.” He meant the urge to change, and to hunt. Werewolves were nocturnal. They came out to play after the moon rose. Some tended to lay low during the day. They favored night shift work where they didn’t have to be up at the crack of dawn. Half the shipping and receiving staff of Home Depot were creepers. 

“You’re gonna leave me alone here?”

“I can bring the gun down, if it helps.”

“It’s not that.”

The closed-in space made Bucky’s panic mount. If he could still hyperventilate, he would have a paper bag over his mouth. Dark. Dirty. Cold. Too much.

“Would it be weird if you stayed here with me?”

“Not… _too_ weird. I guess.”

“So, will you?”

“If it helps you. Yeah. Just, yeah. I can stay. God. I wish I could have a shower.”

“Buddy, you ain’t kiddin’.”

“So, you’re okay like this? Sorry I don’t have a blanket, I keep meaning to bring some.”

“No, I don’t need a blanket. I don’t get cold, but… y’know, warmth just feels _good_.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“Kind of like a lizard on a rock that’s been out in the sun all day.”

“Great image.” And Steve gave him a smile that brought out a shallow dimple in his cheek. Cute. “I can’t maintain my shift for that much longer. But, I can warm you up a little?”

Bucky hated the desperation in his own voice. “Could you?”

So, Steve shifted back partway, and his glorious fur made an encore appearance. “I’ll try not to scratch you, okay?” Bucky rolled to his side, and Steve laid himself down beside him, spooning against his back when Bucky bent his knees slightly, and Steve’s hand, talons and all, rested on Bucky’s waist. Bucky felt the first spike of warmth and comfort at the sensation of Steve’s body against him, and reached for his hand, tugging his arm all the way around him, sighing at how good it felt.

“O. Kay.”

“S’nice,” he murmured sleepily. Just the sensation of his closeness, the feeling of being held, made Bucky’s whole body relax.

“Just… make yourself at home.”

Steve smelled like a musk ox. Or an unbathed ferret. Bucky didn’t smell much better. But little in the world felt better than having Steve wrapped around him like a fleece blanket.

*

 

Bucky woke up first. His internal clock told him it was around mid-afternoon. It _felt_ like three o’clock. He saw a buttery shaft of sunlight shine in through a crack in the floor, but thankfully, it hadn’t traveled their way; they were tucked far enough into the corner. It was a grim reminder of who Bucky wasn’t, anymore, and it made him wistful. He felt less groggy, but he was hungry again. But, his senses were back in whack. He felt… better. A little more whole.

He heard a low snore and felt hot breath stirring against his back.

“Oh. Right.” Steve.

His arm was bare. That meant the rest of him was bare. Bucky’s back was still warmed by his scant weight, but it wasn’t the radiant heat from his fur, which disappointed him a little. But still. It was nice. Waking up to someone. Maybe the _location_ wasn’t ideal. Those slender legs were still tucked up into the crook of Bucky’s bent knees, and one of Steve’s feet was tucked between his ankles. His arm was slack, but when Bucky moved, it jerked and tightened around him. Well. Steve’s palm flattened possessively against Bucky’s chest.

“Steve-O. Hey.”

“Mmmmmm.”

His voice was deep and sleep-raspy, and it licked over Bucky. 

“It’s daylight, buddy.”

“Then, we c’n sleep,” he murmured, yawning. “Can’t go out like this, Buck.”

“Oh. Shit. Guess you can’t.”

“And you still can’t go out,” Steve reasoned. “Just go back to bed, okay?”

“I’m getting a cramp in my arm.”

“Okay.”

Steve rolled to his back and yawned cavernously. His stretch lifted his arm off of Bucky, and Buck heard a few vertebrae in his back crack with the movement. “Mmmmmm. Feels later than it is.”

“You were out. And, uh. It helped. You. When you changed.”

“Did it?”

“Yeah. I felt… better.” Bucky braced himself for a barb. “Safer.”

“You. You felt safe. With _me_.”

Bucky swallowed and licked his lips. “Yeah. I did.”

“Can’t shift again til after dark, buddy.”

“It’s okay. It’s. I don’t mind. I just. It helped, okay?”

“Get off your arm, then. Roll over.”

And Bucky turned onto his opposite side. His blue-gray eyes asked the silent question as he watched Steve. Steve sighed, turned onto his other side, and edged himself back against Bucky’s front. His skinny rump was ducked up against Bucky, curled inside all of his hollows. Bucky didn’t hesitate to put his arm, still tingling from the change in position, around Steve’s narrow waist.

Steve wouldn’t admit to him that he felt safe, too, tucked against him. Werewolves often slept piled together, in pairs or as a pack. It had been so long since Steve enjoyed the sheltering warmth and contact of more than one body - or _any_ body - settled against him. They were stuck in a dank cellar together, but this was almost… nice. He heard Bucky’s low sigh, felt his breath stirring his hair and his arm tighten around him, and this time, Steve fell asleep first.

He dreamed of blue-gray eyes and dark, rosy lips.

*

When they woke again, Bucky’s hunger was sharp and undeniable. He twisted away from Steve, and his eyes glowed a hazy, dangerous red. His breathing quickened, and he shivered. Steve felt him release him suddenly, and that jerked him out of a sound sleep. “Buck?”

“I need _out_.”

“Bucky, take it easy…”

“I need OUT!”

“Okay, okay… shhhhh. Buck. Bucky. Look. It’s me. It’s Steve.” And Bucky felt his hands reach for him. Noticed the talons. Fur. 

Steve. Eyes gleaming a silvery blue in the dark.

“It’s okay. You can go out, now.”

“I need air.”

“Do you even have to breathe?”

“Sometimes, I don’t. I just… breathe.”

“Okay. C’mon.” And Steve rose and stretched, difficult to do in the small space, and he led Bucky back up the stairs. Steve cracked open the bulkhead and inhaled deeply through his nose.

“Coast is clear.” He flung the door open, and Bucky burst out of the bulkhead and sprinted outside. “BUCKY!”

Bucky ran out into the clearing, letting the cool night air drench his skin. He smelled the trees and damp grass, filling his lungs with it. The stars welcomed him, and a gibbous moon shone overhead. Rapture spread across his face, and Steve ached with seeing his beauty, despite his torn, bloody clothes and dirty skin and hair.

“Bucky. Where do you live?”

“What?” Bucky’s arms were outstretched, and a breeze ruffled his hair. He was still reeling with the euphoria of being free, something he hadn’t the time to savor when they escaped the facility.

“Tell me where you live. I can take you back. I know these woods.”

“I live downtown. On Brick Street.”

“Wow.” That was affluent neighborhood. “In one of the little apartments by Rapture?”

“No. I live right above Rapture. The owner’s my sire.”

That gave Steve pause. “I know the owner. She’s… wow. She’s _your_ sire?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, she won’t…”

Steve let his words die, and he balled up his fists, staring down at the ground. His posture closed up, shoulders slumped. Bucky turned to face him. “Steve? What? She won’t what?”

“Buck. She’s… she’s an elder. Right?”

“Yeah. She is. What does that have to do with anything?”

“She won’t he happy that you spent the night with me, will she? Y’know what? You don’t even have to tell her. I won’t tell anyone. I’ve got no one to tell, anyway.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh. 

“Technically, I spent the _day_ with you, first of all. Second thing, she’s not how you think she is. A little overprotective, sometimes. She has her reasons.”

“She won’t be okay with this.”

“She’s gonna be more concerned that I was used as a one-man blood bank. And that I wasn’t the only vamp locked up.”

“Right. I guess.” But Steve still had his misgivings.

“You said you can get us back to town from here.”

“I can.” Steve returned to the task at hand. “How fast can you run?”

“I need to eat, man!”

“We will. But shake a leg.” Steve shifted to his lupine form and shook himself all over for a moment, needing to stretch just as badly has Bucky did, and he was off like a shot. Bucky had no choice but to follow him as he ran east.

*

And it felt good to run. Even though Bucky wasn’t one hundred percent, yet, it felt good to feel the ground beneath his feet and for the wind to blow through his hair, its cold drafts filling his lungs. 

They stopped in another clearing, and Steve shifted again, still hirsute but standing on two feet. “Deer,” he barked. “I’m going to take it down.”

“Steve, isn’t that asking a little much- SHIT!!!” He watched Steve shift lightning fast, and he hunkered down into the brush. And Bucky watched him stalk the deer the he saw just on the edge of the woods. They were downwind. The deer was plump.

And within minutes, it was down. Steve was so fast, not emitting so much as a growl until he was on top of the buck, and its struggle didn’t last long. Steve was a graceful, efficient hunter, when it suited him. Bucky stayed back, letting Steve relish and strip his kill in the brush.

Bucky wouldn’t judge him. Not for one hot second.

*

They ran again, until they reached the edge of the woods. The road was visible from the line of pines and landscaped rocks. Bucky saw that he was three miles from city limits. “I think this is the end of the line, pal,” he murmured to Steve, who was trotting alongside him. Steve whined and huffed, shaking himself. “I guess… I’ll just hoof it from here.” He examined his bloody, torn and filthy clothes. “No one’s gonna pick me up looking like this.”

Steve didn’t shift, and didn’t speak. He just sat back on his haunches and scratched his ear with his back foot.

“Is that how it is? Oh. Okay. I’m… gonna go.”

What Steve couldn’t tell him was that a hunt like the one he’d enjoyed, and spending that much time in his lupine form, made it more difficult to shift back. He’d indulged his animal side and given it free rein. He still understood Bucky. But he was loathe to return to the burden of his humanity, yet, while the moon was still high in the sky, and the taste of warm meat was still fresh in his maw.

Bucky hunkered down and held out his hand to Steve. “Hey. Hey, Steve? Thank you. I won’t forget what you did for me.”

Steve shook himself, then butted at Bucky with his huge head, nudging up against his hand until Bucky scratched his ears. “Don’t… don’t be a stranger, okay? Steve whined and licked his fingers, and Bucky caressed him again, dragging his fingers through the temptingly thick ruff of fur at the back of his neck. But then, Steve’s whine cut off on a low growl, and Bucky released him, backing off and standing up. “Bye, Steve.”

Steve turned and trotted off into the darkness, back into the brush, and then Bucky heard him run once more. He felt more aware of the cold night air and of being alone. 

Steve’s blue eyes would haunt him when he finally slept again.


	3. Bright Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look what the wolf dragged in. Bucky makes his way home after curfew and has to sweat it out in front of the Elders.
> 
> His sire is not amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things I loved about Buffy was the little, mundane, everyday things the denizens of Sunnydale did, that were extraordinary because they were monsters: Drinking coffee. Playing pool or cards. Shopping. Hanging out in fast food joints. Karaoke. I love all of that.

A man staggering home in torn, bloodied clothing looking like he’d been dragged backwards through a hedge of briars wasn’t an uncommon sight downtown. Bucky stopped at his favorite little bodega on his way back to his apartment and nodded at Roberto, the cashier. He glanced up at Bucky above the edge of an issue of _Playboy_ and raised his brow at his appearance, but then he just sighed.

“Want your usual?”

“Yup,” Bucky called over his shoulder as he headed to the back of the store. Bobby rummaged in the front case for three scratcher tickets and a pack of Marlboro Reds while Bucky did the rest of his shopping. He went to the tiny first aid aisle and picked up a few essentials from the dusty shelves. Gauze. Band-aids. Antiseptic. Bucky hadn’t suffered an infection in _decades_ , but there was no telling what he’d been exposed to during his time in containment. Better safe than sorry. And, call it nostalgia. He remembered his mother muttering under her breath at him while she gently cleaned and dressed his small injuries when he was still young enough to be innocent. Bucky missed those comforts. 

Bucky had left his family once he was turned, to spare them the grief. He visited George, Winifred and Becca’s graves every year and left them bundles of forget-me-nots, hoping the blooms would live up to their name. He’d known he would outlive them. Miss them. But Ororo had warned him that once he was turned, once he assumed that burden of immortality, it would only hurt him more to watch himself outlive them, seeing them age and wither away. 

He went to the refrigerators and selected a couple of bottles of Starbucks mocha, for the taste alone. Bucky knew he would need to feed again tomorrow, and to feed well if he wanted to recover and function. He could feel the ache of sore muscles and the itch of his skin as some of his wounds began to knit back together, making him want to crawl out of it.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Steve. Was he taking care of himself? Would he clean himself up and have a safe place to heal? Worry made Bucky’s gut clench.

“Looks like you went out on a bender,” Roberto mentioned.

Bucky gave him a flat look. “You don’t even wanna know, pal.”

“Don’t bleed on my floor, eh?”

“Job security. It’ll give you something to do besides look at dirty pictures. Dani know you’re sneaking the merchandise?”

Roberto’s dark eyes crinkled. The register dinged and beeped as he rung Bucky up. “Gotta make sure the customers are getting a quality product.”

“They won’t if you drool all over it.”

Roberto wrinkled his nose, finally smelling the stench that Bucky brought in with him. “What’s been drooling all over _you?_ ” Bucky held up his hand and shook his head. “Right. I don’t wanna know.”

“Be seein’ you,” Roberto called after him. Bucky staggered out and made his way home without the inconvenience of a kidnapping. As Bucky reached his block, he noticed a few of Rapture’s regulars gathering out front, lining up within the confines of the velvet rope. Guido sat perched on the stool, incongruously large atop the small seat. Bucky made his way around through the side alley and took the fire escape up to his floor, not caring if he was violating the building code. He didn't want anyone to come between him and his shower. And he wasn’t in the mood to answer anymore questions.

Bucky banged on the windowframe a few times to coax it open, since the old paint tended to stick. He climbed inside his apartment gracelessly, muttering at the effort it took and how it annoyed his bruised ribs to hang over the sill like that. He locked the window behind him and set down his purchases on the coffee table. Bucky shed his clothes in the kitchen, since they wouldn’t stain the linoleum; he planned to burn them tomorrow. 

He was glad he couldn’t see his own reflection. He ran his hands down his ribs, feeling the fracture in one, and noticing that they stuck out too much. They’d fed him so little and drained him so much. His body still felt wasted and weak. His hands and arms were covered in scratches and needle tracks, and that was blood under his dirty, broken nails. Bucky turned up the hot water dial and practically crawled into the shower. His groan reverberated back at him from the shower tiles as the water poured over his body, sluicing over sore muscles and his myriad cuts; they stung a little, but it felt so good to rinse away the grime.

The water ran red at first, slowly growing pink as he sudsed his skin with a cheap bar of Zest. He lathered his hair with the herbal-smelling shampoo _twice_ just to rid himself of the itchy, filthy feeling crawling over his skin from the dank cell. And Steve’s cellar… Bucky didn’t even want to contemplate what was living in the dirty floorboards. Bucky couldn’t wait to crawl into bed to collapse, musing to himself that his schedule was turned on its ear. He didn’t doubt his ability to sleep for eighteen hours straight, provided that no one interrupted him. Bucky craved the softness of his flannel sheets and thick duvet. 

Bucky stiffened when he felt another presence in his apartment before he turned off the shower knobs. He paused, dripping, in the tub as he listened, and goosebumps rose all over his skin as it cooled. _Damn it_. Bucky slowly got out of the tub, trying not to disturb the shower curtain rings or send them scraping across the rod. His eyes scanned his bathroom vanity, looking for anything with a sharp point. He spied the metal nail file, wondering if it would work as a shiv. And out of instinct, his fangs extended themselves, because if it was a flesh bag, well… 

Bucky could still stand to eat.

He didn’t bother to fumble with the bath towel hanging beside the door. Modesty wasn’t as important as showing his unwanted guest the door. Bucky edged out the bathroom door, glad that he hadn’t closed it on his way in, so it wouldn’t creak. 

He saw the range top light above his stove glowing from the kitchen, throwing scant illumination into the corridor. He gripped the nail file, letting his thumbnail scratch its rough surface as he padded, dripping, around the corner toward his living room. Then, Bucky heard an ominous, metallic-sounding pop, and he went into predator mode. Quick as a flash, he rushed the intruder in his kitchen, noticing at first glance that they were short and spare in build. Bucky grabbed them before they could evade him and crushed them against the refrigerator door.

“HEY!” The voice was young, female… and all too familiar. “What’s your damage, Barnes?”

“Shit… Jubes. Really?” Bucky softened his grip and turned her around, staring down into her face. “You picked a bad night for this. You don’t… just don’t sneak up on me like that? Please?” 

She tsked, swatting away his hands, but her dark eyes widened as she took in his appearance. “Geez, what happened to… ooooookay. We aren’t having this conversation with you butt-ass naked. I know I’m a hundred and twenty now, buddy, but when I was first turned, this would have scarred me for life.”

“Damn it…” Bucky snarled. “Don’t look down. Just… don’t look at me.”

“You’re all beat up. What happened to you?”

“Give me a second.” None of Bucky’s dish towels were within reach, and he chose to sprint back the way he came before Jubilee could turn on the rest of the kitchen lights. Bucky ducked into his room and yanked open the bureau drawer, snatching up a pair of boxers and a soft, gray tee with a large, faded Dodgers logo. Once he was dressed, he greeted her again and flicked on the lights. Jubilee took a gulp of one of his bottled mochas.

“I forgot how good these are.”

“Help yourself. Make yourself at home,” he deadpanned.

“You could be a better host.” Jubilee snickered as she held up the nail file that he dropped. “Were you going to give me a manicure?”

“You almost became dinner.”

“Pfffft. Yeah, right. So. What happened?”

“I was taken.”

“Whaddya mean, you were ‘taken?’” Jubes wiped a drop of coffee off her top lip with the edge of her finger. Bucky noticed her nails were painted a glittering black. A little cliche, but she liked to pretend to be “edgy.”

“They lured me. A guy came onto me and led me into the alley behind the club. His friends were waiting for us.”

Jubilee set down the mocha, a sign that she was spooked.

“Bucky. Wow. Okay. You’ve gotta tell Ororo. She’s gonna go apeshit.” 

“That’s why I _don’t_ wanna tell her, yet.”

“Bucky!”

“I know I have to. She deserves to know. But there’s more to it than me being taken. I had help getting away from the people who did this to me.”

“Who?”

Bucky steeled himself. “A lycan. He… they did a number on him, too. But, he fought his way out, and he took me with him.”

“A creeper?” 

“Don’t… maybe don’t call him that.”

“Why?” She looked incredulous. “Those hairballs _hate_ us. They call _us_ leeches, anyway.”

“Just… just don’t.”

She held up her hands. “Fine. Okay. Picky, picky…”

“He saved me. He didn’t have to.”

“Good point. So. There you go.” Jubilee sighed. “You have a blood debt, now.”

Bucky was relieved that she saw it that way, too, even though it didn’t help him much at the moment. “I really do.”

“Ororo’s not going to be happy.”

“I know that.”

Jubilee sagged back against the counter. “So. They lured you, huh?” A slow smirk spread across her lips. “What were you up to, Barnes?”

“Shut up.” His tone was clipped, but he was beginning to flush.

“Bucky wanted to get lucky…” she sang.

“Can we not spread this around?”

“Pffft… who do I even have to tell? My social network is pretty narrow, pal.” That was the sacrifice Jubes made when she was turned. 

“You get out and about every now and again.”

“It’s not the same.” Her voice was cold and flat. “You know it’s not.”

Because of course it wasn’t. College classes. Mid-morning brunch after an all-night bender. Shopping trips at the galleria. Daytime road trips. It was hard to have a real social life when you could only come out at night. Jubes was discreet out of necessity, but she resented the need.

So much.

“Kiddo, I’m beat.” He hated to kick her out, but Bucky craved his bed and some time alone. He needed to work out the past few days in his head and figure out where to go next. And the thoughts of Steve deserved quiet reflection and the luxury of replaying moments like falling asleep wrapped in his warmth. Or the sound of his rich, deep voice in the dark. _What was wrong with him?_ Steve was a werewolf. It wasn’t like there was any hope for friendship… or anything deeper. Steve’s status as a maverick didn’t help. 

“Fine. I know when I’m not wanted.” Jubilee practically flounced her way back toward the window. 

“Don’t tell Ororo what happened yet,” he reminded her.

“Chill, Bucky. S’no big deal. I’ll be an innocent lamb. I know _nothing_. ‘What kidnapping?’ See?”

Bucky rubbed the bridge of his nose, blowing out a frustrated breath. 

“She’s gonna know, anyway,” she told him. “She always does.”

“I just need a break. I need to process this before I come clean, okay?”

“Just don’t be a wimp, ‘kay? Don’t put this off for too long. Especially since it’s kind of important? Because you’re not the only one.”

That brought him fully awake. “What?”

“Word around the club is that they took Everett. He’s been gone as long as you have.”

“Damn it.”

“Yeah.”

“You liked him a little… right?”

“You could say that.” And her voice was edged with fear. She dangled the half-full bottle of coffee between her middle and index finger and sat on the edge of his windowsill. The dim light from the streetlights outside silhouetted her body. She was slight and petite, and her skin looked pale and smooth. She was young and old at once, and her eyes had seen too much. “Y’know, it’s weird. It’s… it’s spooky, Bucky. I thought, I thought that, we were safe? If I was turned, I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone trying to hurt me again. That I’d be able to defend myself.” She huffed a laugh and shook her head. “God. This sucks.”

“I wish I knew what to tell you.”

She set the bottle down on the sill, crossed the room, and Jubilee enveloped him in a hug that was surprisingly - or perhaps not surprisingly - strong, and comforting. Bucky returned it, wishing he could give her more reassurance. “Stay safe,” she murmured into his shirt.

“I’m safe and sound, kiddo. Still all in one piece.”

“Barely. Idiot.”

“G’night.”

“Night, Barnes.” She disappeared down his fire escape, and Bucky locked his window after her, but not after he glimpsed her meeting a couple of people standing in line outside the club. She threw back her head and laughed at something they said, but he knew it rang hollow. 

Bucky was done for the night. He locked his window, crawled into bed, threw the covers over his head, and dropped into a long, troubled sleep.

*

Steve shortcut through the large dog-walking park, certainly not out of place, despite that fact that he risked being picked up by Animal Control for not wearing a collar and tags. None of the passerby paid him any attention when he headed for the street and sat at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. He trotted across the street with the flow of pedestrians, avoiding a teen that tried to pet him. 

Steve loped down the pavement, and the lamplight made his fur glow, but it also emphasized how dirty and matted it was. Steve longed for a shower and clean pajamas. He climbed the steps, nearly tripping a late-night jogger who was just coming down in a hideous pink track suit and earbuds plugged in. The man coming out of the front security door tried to shoo him off.

“Get outta here, mutt! You can’t come in here!”

“It’s okay, Frank.” A scruffy, rangy blond with messy spikes of hair and a bandage across his nose clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s my dog, again. He got out.”

“Get him some tags, then, Barton!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Mind yer business, asshole.” Then, to Steve, “Get the fuck in here before anyone else sees.” Steve wagged his tail in cheeky fashion and hurried inside in a blur of fur and skittering of claws. “I don’t need to get evicted just because I cover for you.” Steve whined low in his throat. He dashed down the hallway, with Clint in slow pursuit. Steve managed to find his own front door and nosed at the mat in front of it. He clawed at it until he managed to move it, nosing under the flap. He pawed at the small, gleaming key until Clint caught up to him and bent down to grab it.

“You’re hopeless, Rogers, he muttered. Clint fiddled with the knob, cramming the key into the slot, and he let Steve into his own apartment, glancing around to make sure the neighbors weren’t watching. “You’re welcome,” he added, tossing the key into the bowl that Steve kept by the front door.

Steve shifted to his transitional form once he was inside, and he turned to face his former friend. “Thanks, asshole.”

“You could be more appreciative, y’know.”

“I was banished?” Steve reminded him, in the same tone most people would say “The dog ate my homework.”

“Excuses.” Clint shook his head. “Which begs the question: Why do you look like shit?”

“Don’t ask.”

“No. I’m asking. You smell like death, buddy. Lots of it.”

“I had a rough night.”

“You had a rough _few_ nights,” Clint corrected him. Steve glared at him. “Yeah, you heard me. Don’t think I don’t watch your comings and goings.”

“You don’t have to, anymore.”

“Old habits die hard.”

“You can break that one.”

Clint’s lips tightened and he clenched his fists at his sides.

“You don’t have to worry about me, anymore.”

“Except when I do. Where were you?”

“I was locked up.”

“Jail, Rogers?!”

“No. Not jail.” Steve was pacing around his apartment, gathering up a discarded t-shirt and a pair of socks that didn’t smell too ripe. He headed into the back of his apartment. “It was a research facility. I was contained. They experimented on me.”

“Experimented on you?”

“Took a chunk of bone out of my foot.”

“Which explains why you’re limping. What’d they want it for?”

“Who knows?”

“Rogers. C’mon. Aren’tcha even _concerned_?”

“Clint. I’m not goin’ in there to try and get it _back_. I’ll grow a new one.”

Clint shook his head, but Steve could feel his agitation like a rough shove. “Fine. Same ol’ Steve. Y’know,” Clint said as he hovered with his hand on the doorknob, “I know you don’t care about yourself. Nobody who gets in as many scraps as you ever could? But, can you at _least_ give a half a shit about the rest of us? Maybe we’re not your pack anymore, Rogers, but we’re still your kind.”

“I’m touched, Barton. Now, get the fuck outta here so I can take a shower.” Yet it hurt. Steve hated the wall that stood between them, even when Clint seemed like he was trying to look over it at him from time to time. It was for the best. Staying close to Steve Rogers wasn’t good for your health.

“By the way, you bastard, not like you care, but Wilson misses you. Just thought you should know that.”

“Good night.” Steve’s voice was hard and flat.

“Yeah, good night!” Clint saluted him before he slammed Steve’s door after himself. Steve sighed, slowly deflating and giving in to the events of the past few days. He tossed the clothing onto the bath mat and shifted back to the skin he was born in, hairless and covered with bruises, cuts and scrapes, some already half-healed. Normally, Steve hated wastefulness, and he was a drop-the-size-of-a-dime kind of guy when it came to hair product, but he squandered his shampoo, emptying what felt like a third of his bottle of Pert into his palm and massaging it into his filthy, blood-caked hair. He felt so sticky all over, and the metallic miasma of old blood and God only knew what else rose up into his lungs along with the steam from the scalding spray. Steve scrubbed at his skin with his blunt nails, letting the shampoo foam slick over his body in thick runnels. He would never be clean enough. Short of peeling away his skin, he would never rid himself of the feel of the cold cell bars, or the prods. Impersonal, gloved hands. Leather restraints. 

His containment served as a grim reminder that Steven Grant Rogers was alone in this world. No one would mourn him. The water pounded down his back and coursed through his hair but didn’t rinse away his sins. His low sobs echoed off the shower walls until the water finally ran cold.

Spent. His body’s reserves flagged and drained away as he dried himself, tugged on the shirt, socks and his last clean pair of boxers and climbed into bed. A brief sniff told him his laundry run needed to include his sheets. But it just felt so damned good to _collapse_.

*

 

Setting an alarm for himself the night before might have unfucked Steve’s day. A little, at least.

Jameson’s call jerked him awake at seven PM the next day, and Steve felt as groggy as he would after mere _minutes_ of sleep as he leaned halfway out of bed, blindly slapping at his side table for the phone. Even his iPhone sounded pissed at him, turned facedown and buzzing like an off-service radio station. He managed to swipe the screen to accept the call on the fifth pulse, and he regretted it as soon as he saw the caller ID. He’d picked a screenshot of Daggett from “The Angry Beavers” as his contact photo to make check-ins with his boss less cringeworthy. It didn’t help.

“ROGERS! Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No. Sir.” Steve rubbed his eyes and winced, wishing just once the middle-aged publisher would turn down the volume.

“Then can you tell me why my apparently overpaid graphic designer is running three hours late for his shift?”

“I… ran into some… problems. I’m so sorry, Mr. Jameson. I’ll be there in a half an hour, tops.”

“You’ve got ten minutes. Rise and shine, Rogers!” Jameson was old-fashioned. Still enjoyed the little pleasures like using a landline phone, so he could slam the receiver down in Steve’s ear. Ah, the joys of working for a baby boomer.

Steve stumbled out of bed and went to get a fresh pair of briefs, before he realized he was wearing his last good pair. Well. That simplified things, didn’t it? He found a halfway decent pair of jeans and a soft, green flannel shirt that Sarah had given him for his birthday who knew how many years ago, but it was his favorite. With the neckline of his white undershirt peeking out from under the open collar and the hem tucked in, he almost looked respectable. Steve worked a little product into his hair, crammed his feet into his loafers and grabbed his wallet and keys, stuffing them into his pocket. He grabbed his carrier bag and his phone and locked up, hurrying past Clint’s apartment door in the hopes that he’d miss him. Clint was just about to start his own evening shift at his job as security for Stark Industries. Steve wasn’t in the mood to play another round of The Blame Game with Clint tonight. Or any night.

Steve also managed to dodge his landlord and hoped he didn’t come home to an eviction notice on his door, because he was _maybe, possibly_ a teeny bit late with his rent. Being held captive, tortured, and starved for a fortnight would do that.

Steve caught a cab by the third block that he’d walked and thanked whichever deity that was listening that rush hour was over, but every red light still felt like it took too long, and they caught almost all of them. Steve’s stomach growled in warning, reminding him how long it had been since he last ate.

It was gonna be a long night.

*

 

Bucky lingered at the bar, helping Jubilee towel-dry beer pitchers as a distraction, and to stall a little before his meeting with Ororo. “Nervous?” Jubes whispered as they saw her step out of her office in back with T’Challa. She smiled and nodded at something he said and leaned in for a soft kiss. Her smile lingered as he exited the club. Just as he walked past the bar, he told Bucky, “She’s ready for you.” Bucky’s stomach tied itself into a knot.

But Ororo didn’t look angry, for the moment, as she beckoned to him, office door open wide. Bucky handed Jubilee the towel and followed her. “Nice knowing you, kiddo.”

“Quit being such a wimp,” she shot back. “It’ll be fine.” The he caught her muttered, “I hope.” That didn’t help.

Ororo’s office smelled like jasmine; there were fresh branches of it in a fluted glass vase on the edge of her desk. Potted ferns hung from ceiling hooks, and a tall ficus stood proudly in the corner. Ororo still wore her day suit in tailored white linen, with hammered brass bracelets around her wrist and a matching, wide collar at her throat. Her hair was pulled back in a stern chignon. Raisin lipstick enhanced her ripe, full mouth. Her expression was cool, but her eyes were not amused.

“Sit.”

“Okay.” Bucky planted himself in the chair in front of her desk, and she sat on its edge, staring down at him. She folded her arms and crossed one ankle over the other. 

“So. You were taken.”

“Yes.” It was best not to mince words with Ororo.

“From here.”

“Yes.”

“From my property.” 

“From the alley behind the club,” Bucky clarified.

“Ah.” She nodded. “I see.”

Cold dread gnawed at him as he watched her calculating his words, and the implications.

“What brought you out there, Bucky?”

“I.” He steeled himself and closed his eyes, suddenly ashamed. “It’s… I was lured.”

She uncrossed her arms and let her hands rest on the edge of the desk, appearing to need the support. “Oh, Bucky.”

“I know it sounds bad-”

“Bucky. Don’t. Don’t make assumptions of me.”

Ororo knelt by his chair and laid her cool hand over his. “Just tell me what happened. I won’t judge you. And you know I take care of my own.”

The breath he’d been holding shuddered out of him and he licked his lips. “I’m sorry. I just… I wasn’t thinking. I was irresponsible, and I know it’s not okay.”

“We’ll talk more about responsibility when you tell me who did this to you.” And Ororo slid up his shirt sleeve, taking in the mottled bruises and cuts. She gently touched his cheek, and he obediently turned his face to show her the wounds along his jaw and neck. She catalogued his injuries silently, expelling a sigh that made Bucky assume that she was judging him at least a _little_.

“A man named Pierce. Alexander Pierce. He was the one who gave the orders for the things they did to me.”

“What did they do, sweetheart?”

“They. They took my. My blood.”

Her grip on his hand tightened. “Damn it.”

“More than once.”

“All right. All right, Bucky. This gives me something to think about. Pierce. I’ll open a channel and talk with my peers, tonight. This needs to be addressed, and to be dealt with as quickly as we can manage.”

Which meant more blood would be spilled. Down the line, or any minute. Because, there was _always_ blood.

“I’m sorry.” Shame prickled over his skin as she continued to stare at him with those piercing, tourmaline eyes. They were disconcerting in their intensity, and strangers first meeting Ororo Munroe found themselves caught speechless by their unique, feline, slitted pupils. 

“Oh, James,” she murmured, giving her head a little shake. “We all have urges. We feel tempted.” She knew it wasn’t just the meal he liked; it was the lust of the conquest, the rapture and the intimacy of feeding, but also the seduction. Attraction. It was the sharpest tool in a vampire’s arsenal, aside from their fangs. “But you have to be more careful.”

“I know.”

“We have more reliable sources-”

“I know that.” He brushed her off, but she gave him a chiding look.

“I don’t want you to trust strangers, James. Because this incident proves that you _can’t._ ”

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. Her lips felt cool as stones. “I’m only looking out for you.”

“You always have,” he agreed, patting her hand. “Thank you.”

“Go spruce yourself up a bit. I’d like you to back up the front with Guido tonight.”

Bucky longed to stay in the shadows. Behind the bar, or in the kitchen. But he nodded gamely instead. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

“All right. And please, Bucky? Go shave. You look like a muskrat.”

*

 

“End of surgery, thirteen hundred thirty hours. Nicely done, gentlemen. Put him on two liters.” Essex degloved and dropped his surgical gown and visor into the nearby, triangular waste container and exited the suite. The surgical techs counted the sponges in the bio bucket and gathered their dirty instruments in the metal basket to take to decontam. Essex’s anesthesiologist roused their patient gently, his voice smooth.

“Rise and shine, Brock. Wakey-wakey. We’re all done.” He smirked over his sleeping form. “You don’t know how tempting it is to just lea-”

Before he could finish his sentiment, a swarthy, muscled arm shot up and the remaining fingers on that hand snapped themselves firmly around his neck. “ _HHHhrrrgKKLLLL…_ Air. It stuttered out of his throat and he couldn’t replace it, and it took six crucial seconds for the rest of the staff in the room to react, dropping equipment and rushing to the operating table to unscrew the arm bolster attached to the side, giving them more room to subdue Rumlow, who woke up in a snit.

Veins stood out in his neck and temples, and his voice was a raspy mess from the airway tube that the doctor removed. “Sneaky bastard! You think I don’t know what you can do t’me while I’m out?! Huh? You like that?” The anesthesiologist’s hands flapped near his throat, slapping at Brock’s fist, not wanting to undo Essex’s handiwork. It had been a simple enough procedure, debriding the wound from his amputation. Thankfully, it wasn’t his trigger finger, but Brock cussed his way down to the operating suite from his gurney, ranting and doubting the competence of every soul in the room. It was a relief to put him under, and the sedative worked quickly as it raced into his vein. The techs and circulating nurse smiled behind their masks when his voice cut off halfway through informing Essex that he’d do a little amputating of his own when he woke up if there was so much as a crooked scar. 

So, Brock still full of piss and vinegar didn’t surprise them. The aides in the corridor rushed in and restrained him with difficulty. “Brock! Cool it! Calm down! Do you remember where you are?”

“That’s why he’s fighting us,” one of the techs muttered.

“Shut up,” the nurse hissed. “Don’t make it worse.”

“Let go of him. Easy, now. That’s it. We’re all friends, here.”

“Suck my dick.” He let go, but not without a little more resistance. Rumlow gave the doctor a little shove first before he let himself collapse back down to the table, spent.

“Okay. He’s going to be fine.”

They wheeled him out, and he kept ranting the whole way down to the facility’s recovery suite. The techs began to clean the suite, feeling sorry for the creeper that did this to Rumlow, which was a _hell_ of a lot sorrier than they felt for the man who lost a finger. When Pierce finally recovered his pet experiment, there might not be anything left of him to study. The anesthesiologist sat back on his chair, nursing the bruised flesh around his neck and catching his breath.

Just a typical Tuesday night.

*

 

“Man, you look rough.” Steve craned his neck around from his PC and gave his favorite photographer a weak smile.

“Thanks for asking, Pete, I’m doing fine.”

“Sorry. But. Yeah. I take that back. You look _like hell_.” Peter receded further into Steve’s cubicle after glancing over his shoulder into the aisle to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Where have you been?”

“Out. Of town.”

“How did you not get fired?” Peter’s brown eyes were incredulous but impressed.

Because Jonah liked Steve’s designs better than any of the interns. But Steve hedged a little. “I had a little scheduled time off, anyway.” 

“Dude. You’ve been gone for _two weeks_. I blew up your phone texting you!”

Steve noticed, but it was too awkward trying to explain why he was away from it for so long. “I was busy with a few things.”

“Eating wasn’t one of those things. God, you’re even skinnier than usual, Rogers.”

Peter wasn’t one to talk. He was taller than Steve but built like a string bean, himself. “Look, I don’t wanna sound like ‘that guy,’ Rogers, but people are talking. Just… lay low. Keep your head down and stay busy. This isn’t you. It’s just not like you not to show up for work.” The unspoken _You make the rest of us look bad_ lingered between them. “And maybe I worried about you.” He held his finger and thumb up with a millimeter of space in between. “About that much.”

“Jerk.”

“Hey, this is my idea of a warm welcome back. And you can make it up to me for worrying me by treating me to pizza.”

Steve’s shoulders sank.

“I’m kidding. It’s on me.”

“All meat?”

“What other kind is there?” Pizza without meat qualified as salad in Peter Parker’s book. “But, you’re okay?”

“Good enough.”

“Jameson’s been on the warpath, man.”

“You ain’t kiddin’. He bit my head off and spit it out, and then told me to pick it up off his good carpet and put it back on.” Steve wasn’t exaggerating much. He hated reporting to his publisher’s office, hated the uncomfortable leather seat and the residual scent of cigar smoke and bad coffee. Jonah had grilled him for a half an hour once Steve clocked in, reminding him that he was a generous man who treated his employees better than they deserved. He didn't fail to let him know that he wasn’t the only graphic designer in town, either, and that he could snap his fingers and have an even more talented guy _just like that_ by morning. 

“You know, Rogers, I took a chance on a little guy from Brooklyn who came here with his hat in his hands, fresh off an internship and with next to no professional experience. I like to think I’m a man with vision. I saw your potential.” Steve could practically recite this lecture along with him, including the hand gestures and the wounded expression. “Just let me know if I was mistaken, and if it was wrong to give you a chance.”

“No, sir. You’re never wrong, Mr. Jameson, sir!”

“Would it be wrong to fire you?”

Steve’s mouth clapped shut, and he gripped the armrests of the chair until he white-knuckled.

Jameson nodded, smiling. “Ah. You’d take exception to that.”

Steve began to sweat.

“Look,” Jameson murmured, leaning forward in his seat. He took the small amber prescription bottle on his desk and attempted to unscrew it, but it gave his hands trouble until Steve lurched forward to take it from him. He popped it open with no difficulty and handed it back, and Jameson measured him with his flinty gray eyes as he shook out one of the yellow-and-orange capsules. He tossed it back with a sip of his coffee, and Steve resisted the urge to tell him he probably shouldn’t take those with caffeine. “I like you, Rogers. I like you a lot more than half of those idiots out there in my newsroom, because you have heart, and you care about doing your job right and not just printing the news. But I still have to hold you accountable. I’m docking your pay.” Steve’s stomach sank.

“Sir…”

“I’m sorry. I know you still have some PTO left, but I’m not authorizing it. The news never takes a day off, Rogers. I’m letting you keep your job. _This_ time.”

And Steve chastised himself, ten thousand voices in his head chorusing that he needed to keep this job, for things like insurance. Prescriptions. Food. Rent. Utilities. His crappy Samsung phone. Life, in general.

So. He stifled the growl of outrage trapped in his chest and nodded.

“If I go easy on you, Rogers, everyone else will think they can take unscheduled days off. That’s not how I run my newspaper.”

“I know that.”

“Then _act_ like you know that. I want you to take the initiative and show me why I shouldn’t can you.” 

“I plan to, sir.”  
Jameson sighed. “Best laid plans… And Rogers? If you’re away from the office without so much as a phone call, it’s going to grab my attention. I mean, for all I know, you could have been snatched by a cult.”

 _Pretty damned close,_ Steve didn’t tell him.

“All right.” Then, “Thank you, sir.”

“All right. Go. Get back to work.”

Steve practically galloped out of his office, tripping over the edge of the rug on his way out, before he jerked the door shut after himself just short of slamming it.

Fuck. That was _awful_.

*

Steve worked on his layout, dragging and dropping text boxes and graphics and adjusting them to fit to his guides. He hated how cramped his cubicle felt now that he was back. There was no helping it; he was stuck. 

He thought about Bucky and hoped his new friend was having a better night.


	4. Write Me An IOU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debts must be repaid. Even if they break convention. Bucky wants to be a good steward, and a good friend.
> 
> And, maybe more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are going to be more minor characters from Avengers and X-Men canon popping up from time to time. This is going to be a very flexible ‘verse. I’m still following my prompt, to a degree.

Walgreens waiting area by the prescription counter = The Eighth Ring of Hell.

Steve ended up next to a mother of four whose youngest kept running back and forth with action figures from the toy section which she kept denying with exhaustion and growing impatience in her tone. The other three were screaming at the tops of their tiny lungs. Steve almost wished he were still half deaf, because close-range screams were _excruciating_ with lupine hearing. The woman scowled at him repeatedly, until Steve abandoned his seat and paced over to the first aid aisle just to give his ears a rest. He fidgeted as he waited, struggling with the effort it took to suppress his urge to change. He could master it, sometimes, if he worked at it hard enough.

He hated Walgreens in the middle of the night. Becoming a werewolf hadn’t fixed his ulcer. Returning to work for Jonah exacerbated it, and he refilled his stomach meds judiciously. But Steve wasn’t the frequent flyer at the pharmacy anymore; back in the day, they might as well have hung his photo on a Customer of the Month poster by the front door. Steve actually sympathized with the young mother, because there was never a good reason for a woman with children to wait in Walgreens during the wee hours. The youngest one squirmed in the stroller with a croupy sounding cough and snotty face. Steve didn’t envy this mother the rest of the night she had ahead of her. The children were restless and overstimulated. Steve grew more agitated listening to them, and it was difficult to sit or stand still.

The pharmacist at the question window kept scowling back at Steve every time he checked the clock or asked if his order was ready. There was a man with a neck beard wearing a Masters of the Universe tee and ear gages who complimented Steve’s own shirt with Chewbacca who then decided to grill him on which Star Wars movie was his favorite. That took up about twenty minutes. The other denizens of the waiting area included, but were not limited to the following:

A man in his sixties hauling an O2 tank behind him, carrying a shopping basket filled with analgesic patches, instant coffee and Vaporub. He smelled like cigarettes;

One college girl checking her Snapchat and trying to decide on puppy ears or a flower crown for her selfie;

A young man covered in road rash, with one hand in a fresh splint, and the hospital bracelet still on the opposite wrist (Steve wanted to hear that story); and

A guy in torn jeans with tats all the way up his neck, moaning out loud every five minutes, “Sometime TODAY? Some of us have somewhere to be?” He drank half of a sports drink that he hadn’t paid for, yet.

The female clerk caught his eye and waved him over with surprising cheer for someone whose shift started at midnight. “Rogers? Prescription’s ready.”

“Oh, thank God.” He hurried over, ignoring the mother’s glare, and he fished out his AMT card.

“Is that a chip?”

“No.”

“Good. This reader doesn’t work for those, yet.” 

“That’ll be twenty-five dollars.”

“What? I thought I was getting the generic?”

“Your insurance copay went up for that drug tier. Sorry.” She shrugged her shoulders, her mouth a tiny moue of regret.

“Wow, that… okay. That’s fine.” He punched in his code and waited anxiously for the reader to approve his transaction. Every time he used his card right before payday, it was hit or miss.

Approved. _Phew_.

“Did you need anything else?”

“Nope. I’m good. Have a good night.” He dashed off before he was tempted to pick up anything else. The half-pound bag of crunchy Chee-Tohs called out to him, but he left them behind. Steve shrugged down into his jacket and crammed the bottle of pills into his pocket before he began his walk home. The wind ruffled his hair where it stuck out from under his hat, and his skin itched with the urge to change. Steve just wanted to make it home - without anyone stopping him - and attempt to rest.

But the urge to run out in the brush and howl was strong. Steve needed to lay low, like Pete suggested. Not just at work. His neighbors were beginning to talk, and Clint kept giving him the side-eye, muttering things like “Watch your step, Rogers” as he skirted around him on his way out of the elevator with his battered laundry bag. Steve didn’t know why he bothered. It wasn’t like they watched each other’s backs anymore. Not like before.

Steve missed having a pack. He missed belonging to something bigger than himself. Steve was no longer connected to the pack’s group consciousness, and ever since then, he felt empty. He wasn’t welcome at his old pack’s gatherings anymore, and he avoided the old neighborhoods he frequented. Some blocks were thickly populated with lycans, who typically weren’t as territorial as people thought. At least not in regard to other werewolves. They did have a problem with leeches vampires, though. 

Vampires were problematic. They upset the status quo. It was hard enough keeping a low profile as a werewolf. Vamps were trouble, because they needed to feed on humans, where lycans just wanted to coexist and avoid drama. They took all the good night shift jobs. Steve’s neighborhoods might have a problem with his comings and goings, but vampires made _horrible_ neighbors. Up all night. No regard for people who had to be up early in the morning. They were opportunists. Vamps who were middle-aged or older when they were turned tended to have more restraint; it was the young ones who had no respect for rules or boundaries, who took too many risks. They were the shit-stirrers. Older vamps drank more discreetly, occasionally stealing a drink in a crowded subway tunnel or in the restroom of a high-end restaurant. Some of them were home drinkers, ordering “takeout” from the blood sources around town. You could get a box delivered to your apartment with a little pull-out stopper. Some of them were even mixed with various alcohols, if that was your thing. Unwinding with a glass of O positive infused with cabernet was living the life, for some of the undead. Vamps enjoyed suburban living. The smaller pouches of donor blood even had a little punch-top for the straws; they won the copyright infringement lawsuit from Capri Sun and changed their logo. 

Werewolves craved open spaces. They were social among their own kind, but they hated crowds. Vampires hunted out in the open, searching out prey in nightclubs. Bowling alleys. Bars. Even hospitals. Steve shuddered. That practice disgusted him. 

So, he made his way back toward his crappy apartment, craving the silence. The moon was new, and its pull was much weaker, which helped, but he still didn’t consider himself good company.

Apparently, he was alone in that assumption.

He slowed his approach as he neared three teens on the sidewalk. One of them with liberty-spiked hair and a lip ring grinned at him and pushed himself off of the wall he leaned against. Steve felt a frisson of dread and felt his hackles rise. _Oh, no._

They needed to just let him go. Just let him go. Just let him go.

“Hey, buddy. Got a cigarette?”

“Nope. Those things’ll kill you, kid.”

“M’not a kid.” He huffed and grinned at his friends. One of them showed a flash of fang when he laughed.

 _Oh, God._ Steve didn’t know if this was actually worse.

“Then maybe you can spare some change, so we can buy our own smokes, old man.” 

“Sorry. I’m all tapped out.”

“We’ll make you tap out,” he promised as Steve attempted to walk around them. He reached out and shoved Steve’s shoulder, and Steve suppressed a low growl. “We asked you politely to help us out!”

“I’m asking you just as politely to let me by,” Steve told him. If it had been any other night, and just one kid that wasn’t out to fleece him - or mug him, because let’s face it, that’s what this was - Steve might have spared him some change. But it was late, he needed to get behind closed doors _pronto_ , and these kids were out for trouble. Plain and simple.

“You need to learn a little about helping your community.”

“Sharing is caring,” joked the one with gleaming black fingernails and smudged eyeliner. Goth vamps. Steve shook his head, sighing.

“You’ve got your whole lives ahead of you to learn how it’s done, guys. And this ain’t how it’s done.”

“‘You’ve got your whole lives ahead of you,’” the first one scoffed. “You sound like a narc!”

And Steve supposed it sounded ridiculous to lecture the undead about “their whole lives.” Still…

“Let. Me. By.”

The kid shoved him again. “Spare us some change, and we’ll let you go.”

Steve grunted and tensed, nose scrunching back with the struggle not to change. The kid shoved him again, and this time the growl escaped him. “What’re you gonna do, old man? Huh? Think you’re so tough?”

“Kid… back off. Go back home to your parents…”

“We ate them!” he bragged, and they scoffed and hooted with laughter on the darkened street. The worst part was, Steve was alone. Traffic was sparse at this time of night, barely a headlight to be found. A cruising patrol car drove right on by, disheartening him. Steve still hoped to God the kid was lying. 

“Hand over your wallet!”

Steve’s eyes glowed in the dark, and his breathing changed. Deepening into rough pants. He held out his hands, slapping away the kid’s reach for him again, and he saw their expressions change when they noticed his nails lengthening into talons, hands growing a thin layer of dark blond fur.

“Oh, shit! This dude’s a creeper!”

“GET BACK!” 

“Easy, there, Grandpa-”

“GET AWAY!”

“Listen to him.”

The voice was deep and familiar. Authoritative. Its owner took no shit.

Steve whirled around, ignoring common sense and turning his back on his would-be muggers to confront Bucky. He looked calm and effortlessly groomed.

“These guys bugging you, Stevie?”

“Look, pal, we were just-”

“You were just leaving.”

Liberty Spikes flipped him the bird. “Says who?”

“I can take care of this,” Steve growled. He was fuming, narrow chest contracting like a bellows.

“I know you can.” Bucky’s voice was soft and fond. “My friend was on his way home.”

“He’s not your friend,” the kid spat.

Bucky smiled at him, then shook his head.

“What?” the kid demanded. “You’re standing up for this lycan piece of shit?” Before he could make a move on Steve again, he found himself silenced.

Bucky moved so fast Steve barely saw him. In a split second, the kid was pinned against the wall with Bucky’s elbow planted against his throat. His feet were inches from the ground, fidgeting with the struggle to get free. “I know you don’t need to breathe, buddy,” Bucky reminded him, “but you should still mind your elders. At least if you’re attached to having a head.”

The other two kids stood quiet and stunned, and they backed off. Steve felt himself deflate and gradually shift back to his baseline. 

“Do we need to have this talk?”

The kid shook his head with some difficulty.

“Good. Go play nice. Don’t make me talk to my sire about this.”

And he showed them the small silver pendant hanging from a fine chain around his neck, with a distinct, ornate ‘R’ carved into its face.

“Shit.” The kid against the wall recognized it just before Bucky released him.

“Apologize.”

“Sorry!” And the three of them hurried away, their slow trot breaking into a run down the block.

“That… was interesting.” Steve glared up at him. “Were you just passing through?”

“Not. Quite.”

“You’re wearing too much damned cologne.”

“Uh. Oh. Kay.” And Steve turned his back on Bucky, this time, and started walking. He was _fuming_ , fists crammed into his jacket pockets. “Stevie… are you _mad_ at me?”

“No.”

His voice sounded short and sharp, like the man himself.

“Soooooo, why are you walking away from me? No ‘Nice to see you again, Bucky?’ No high fives? No?” Bucky fell into step with him, not difficult with his long legs, but Steve wasn’t in the mood to indulge him.

“You’re a show-off, y’know that, Buck?”

“Buck… I’m just ‘Buck,’ now?” Bucky smirked, warming to it. “Y’know, that’s fine. I don’t hate it. Why are you walking so fast?”

“I wanna get off the street.”

“Okay. Just going home?”

“Yes.”

“Mind if I come with?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do you mind?”

“I just… look, thanks, I guess. For… back there.”

“You’re welcome.” His tone wasn’t smug.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Maybe I just wanted to.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“Stevie. I _wanted_ to. And those three were out of line. They were fledglings.” 

Steve winced. “Yeah. I figured.”

“You weren’t going to hurt them.”

“No.”

“Even if they hurt you.”

And those words made Steve stop. He chafed at the honesty in them, at how well Bucky knew him despite the brevity of their relationship.

“I can handle myself.”

“They were young, but the odds weren’t good. You don’t have a pack.”

“It’s like pouring lemon juice on a paper cut when you remind me of that, Buck.”

“Sorry.”

“I can manage.” And his voice was more tired than anything else, Bucky noticed. There were dark circles under Steve’s eyes and his posture was slumped. 

“I just wanted to stop by and see you, I guess… I was wondering how you were doing.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Word gets around. A few of my regulars have met you.”

“Oh, that’s just _great._ ” Steve threw up his hands and let them slap his skinny thighs. “This isn’t ideal.”

“Steve, it’s okay.”

“This isn’t my idea of ‘okay.’” He made finger quotes around the word. 

“Steve. Listen. You’re under my protection.”

“What?”

Steve flushed and gripped the hair at his nape. Bucky shrugged. 

“You’re kind of stuck with me. I talked with my sire this morning before we locked up. She’s going to run it by the Elders tonight at work, but she’s going to put her seal on the decree of Blood Debt.”

“The what? On the… the what?” Steve’s mouth gaped. “Bucky, what does that mean?”

“That I’m indebted to you. And that you’re under my protection. And by extension, hers.”

“But-”

“I’m going to be looking out for you.”

“Bucky.”

“Steve. Just accept it.”

Steve stopped walking. He attempted to turn back in the other direction and walk away from Bucky, but he followed him again. He changed direction again, but Bucky just kept following him. “No. Don’t. _Don’t._ You can’t do this, Bucky.”

“Um. Yeah. I kinda can.”

“I don’t expect you to just-”

“You’ll learn.”

Oh, that was a mistake.

Steve glared, nostrils flaring, and Bucky watched him puff up, ready to fight. “I won’t ‘learn,’ Bucky. You don’t… you don’t just tell a guy you’re ‘protecting’ him.”

“I just told you.”

“NO!”

“Yes.”

“Bucky.”

“Steve. Just accept it.”

“I know I helped you, once-”

“Twice. Once, when you sprang me from that place. The second time, when you fed me. Actually, since we’re keeping count-”

“We’re not.”

“- the third time is when you kept me safe and out of the daylight. Thanks for that, by the way. Keeping me from burning to a crisp counts as saving me a third time.”

Steve scrubbed his palm over his face and made an aggrieved sound. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“So. A Blood Debt.”

“Yup.”

Steve shook his head and folded his arms. “What. What does that even mean?”

“Well. For starters, it means I get to buy you a drink.”

“What?!”

“Well, it’s early. It’s not like you were going home to _bed_.”

He _did_ have a point.

Steve blew out an exasperated breath. “Fine.”

Bucky grinned, and Steve found himself tugged companionably against him, one of his brawny arms looped around his shoulders. He was still wearing too much cologne, but Steve actually _liked_ Bucky’s natural scent lying underneath it. It was… nice. They walked in the general direction of downtown, until Bucky hailed them a cab.

Steve sat tucked against him in the back seat, staring out the window. The street lights threw panes of white light over his face. Bucky was struck by the spare, masculine beauty of his features and bone structure. Bucky elbowed him. “Hey. I wanna show you where I work.”

“Are you supposed to be socializing right now?”

“I can multitask.”

“Multitask?”

“Yup. I can work at the bar and keep an eye on you. Easy enough.”

Steve grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

“But mostly, I just wanna buy you that drink.”

Steve flicked his eyes in Bucky’s direction for a moment. Bucky’s expression was earnest. He chewed on his rosy, full bottom lip. Steve felt a flash of warmth prickle over him.

“Okay. Just. Just one.”

*

 

The facility still smelled like disinfectant. The metallic tang of blood was a not-so-distant memory in those halls and cells. 

“How’s the patient?”

“Discharged home. With enough narcotics to bring down a small elephant.”

Pierce smiled down at the handful of paperwork he was shuffling before he set it down. He removed his reading glasses and nodded for Essex to sit down in the chair opposite his large desk. Pierce laid down a fresh blotter over it after his assistant discarded the old one. Blood from Rumlow’s severed finger stained it all the way through. The memory of that discovery still rankled. He’d nearly choked on his coffee once he turned on the lights that morning. “All right.”

“We saved the specimen, like you asked.”

“I wasn’t the one who asked. I just approved the request when McCoy made it.”

Essex nodded. His expression was bland.

“How many did we lose?”

“Six. The four that we put down, and... “

Pierce waved away the answer dismissively. He gave Essex a pained look.

“We can’t afford to be sloppy.”

“We underestimated the lycan. We won’t again.”

“He was a source of valuable stock.”

“We can still use what we took. I’ve already culled some viable strains from the material.”

“We don’t want to put all of our eggs in one basket, Nathaniel.”

Essex sighed. “No. We don’t. And we won’t. We’ll find others. And we’ll retrieve five-six-eight-two. He’s out there.” 

They both stared down at the small mug shot of Steven Grant Rogers that was paper-clipped to the sheaf of reports lying on Pierce’s blotter.

“And we’ll find his friend, too,” Pierce murmured. According to his guards - the ones that survived the break - the two of them had left together. Chances are, they were a package deal. Pierce would bet money on it.

And he had money to burn.

*

Steve and Bucky climbed out of the cab outside of Rapture, and Steve eyed the crowd hemmed into a neat row within the velvet ropes before it ran out, and the rest of them stretched and wrapped around the corner. He sighed in dismay. “It’s packed,” he muttered as Bucky paid the driver with a couple of crumpled twenties.

“Not a problem.” Bucky nudged Steve forward with his palm at the small of his back, nodding at the enormous ID checker. The man nodded and saluted him before lifting the rope to admit Bucky and Steve, much to the annoyance of the people in line. 

“Nice of youz ta show up,” he told Bucky.

“What would you do without me?” Bucky bragged. 

Steve looked flustered. He asked the checker, “Need some ID?”

“Sure don’t, Twelve-and-Under,” he said, shrugging. “Boss says yer legit.”

“Hey!” Steve wanted to resent the crack about his looks, but then a spritely young girl with a cruel blunt cut and killer eyeliner grabbed his hand and stamped it firmly with the glow-in-the-dark ink. “OW!”

“Quit being a baby,” she told him. “So, Bucky. This your knight in shining armor?”

“Yes, and be nice to him. Don’t be like you usually are.”

“What? I’m a sweetheart,” she claimed, sticking out her tongue at him. Which turned out to be pierced. “Hiya. Jubilation Lee. Nicetameetcha.” She stuck out her hand and shook Steve’s briskly. Her grip was surprisingly strong. And cold, like Bucky’s.

Oh. Wow.

Steve turned to Bucky. “Is this place… all vamps?”

“Not all,” Bucky said simply. “Maybe about a third. It’s part of its appeal.”

“Why? You got a problem with that?” Jubilee bent her neck at Steve and planted her hands on her hips.

“No. Not at all.”

“Oh, you don’t, huh?”

“No. Really. I don’t. It’s just…” He turned to Bucky helplessly.

“Might help if he felt a little more welcome,” Bucky said. Steve stiffened when Bucky’s hand gripped his shoulder and tugged him against him. The gesture felt protective. Maybe. Even possessive.

Wow.

The club was loud and packed. And dark, except for the mirror ball throwing prisms over the crowd and the low, fluorescent lamps behind the bar. The bartenders wore day-glo face paint and black clothes like Bucky’s, and the music pounded through Steve with a heavy bass beat. It was a nineties raver nightmare. He even saw a few people out on the floor with whistles hanging from their necks. 

The bar was no place for a lycan. Steve cringed his way over to the bar, but Bucky took pity on him. He whispered something to one of the bartenders, who grinned down at Steve and reached into the cash register. The young man handed over a pair of small, spongy orange earplugs.

“Bless you,” Steve cried over the noise as he took them and squeezed them into shape, drilling them into his ears. It helped. Slightly. At least he didn’t want to go bang his head against the wall until he passed out.

“You look like you could use that drink,” Bucky said casually, leaning in so that he wouldn’t have to shout over the noise.

“Nothing too strong,” Steve told him. “My stomach. It’s a little touchy.”

“That’s fine.” Bucky handed the guy behind the bar a twenty, then reached over and plucked up two bottles of hard lemonade. Steve didn’t think his ulcer would appreciate it, but at least it was a drink he liked. Bucky slapped off the caps against the counter and handed Steve his drink.

“I’m going to help Guido out front for a little while,” Bucky told him.

“You can drink while you’re on the clock?”

“Doesn’t really affect me. Not that much, anyway. Not unless it’s mixed with blood.”

“Oh. Uh. Okay.”

Steve’s metabolism was fast enough that the alcohol would give him a slight buzz for about ten minutes before it burned its way out of his system. He was a cheap date ever since he was turned. Not that dates were even a thing. (Because, hello? No pack. And Steve didn’t date norms.)

Bucky took the stool next to Steve’s and twisted himself around on it to face him. “So, this is you with clothes on.”

“Hope I don’t disappoint you.”

“Would it be wrong of me if it does?”

Steve choked on his sip of lemonade. He wiped a droplet of it from his lip while he tried to catch his breath, and Bucky grinned at him. That made those amazing eyes crinkle, and Steve began to choke again. Steve felt him rubbing his back and wanted to shrink down into the floor with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry Stevie. That was bad. I’m sorry. You okay?”

“No,” he gasped.

“Wow, that went down the wrong pipe…”

“Don’t. Mind. Me.” Each word was punctuated by a raspy cough. “Okay. All right. Wasn’t expecting that.”

“I have a way of letting my mouth get away from me.” And Bucky didn’t sound sorry about it.

“Noooooo. Not _you._ ” Bucky was still rubbing his back. Steve was enjoying it more than he wanted to admit. 

“You don’t disappoint me,” Bucky told him. “It’s a little buttoned-up. But, it’s a good look.”

“That kid called me Grandpa.”

“Anybody over the age of twenty-one is old to that kid. Shit, for all we know, that kid could have been a hundred years old, himself. Who knows when he was actually turned?” Bucky reminded him, shrugging. 

“Guess birthdays stop meaning much, after a while.” 

Bucky’s smile lost its wattage, and he withdrew his hand. “Yeah.” He took a generous drag on his lemonade, and Steve tried to pretend that seeing his mouth wrapped around the neck of the bottle didn’t do things to him. 

Bucky was damned handsome up close and cleaned up. His black shirt was snug and fitted, and it brought out the fair, creamy tone of his skin and icy blue eyes. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail that dusted the back of his collar. The colored prisms of light flickered over him in the dark. Steve felt awkward in this setting, with people crowding up against them in their effort to get the bartender’s attention and order their drinks. It felt claustrophobic to Steve, but he could tell Bucky was in his element. Bucky seemed to thrum with a current of energy, drawing it from their environment and the people around them. He bore no resemblance to the bruised, beaten prisoner Steve rescued from a cold cell.

“Sorry if I seem a little uncomfortable. This isn’t really my scene.”

“Couldn’t tell, Rogers.”

Steve gave him a little shove, and that brought back the charming smile. Steve took another slug of his lemonade, liking how it warmed him.

He saw people staring at him and tried to ignore it. He wondered how many of the vamps in the club sniffed out what he was, and he worried that they might take exception to him coming inside with Bucky, acting like he had a right to be there among them. A young woman with multiple facial piercings dressed in a snug, red leather corset looked irritated with him as she shoved her way past him to the bar to drop off her empty Long Island iced tea glass.

“Sorry,” Steve told her.

“Move it, flea bag,” she hissed, baring her fangs at him, but Bucky gave her a cold look.

“That’s enough.”

She tsked, shrinking back. “Sorry.”

“You should be.”

Well.

She hustled off, and Steve gave Bucky an apologetic look. “This might not have been the best idea.”

“Maybe not. I just wanted you to see where I spend most of my time.” Bucky rubbed his nape, and color rose up into his cheeks. Was he… _blushing?_ “Maybe we can have a do-over.”

“A do-over? When you say ‘do-over,’ what do you mean by-”

“A better first date.”

“-that?”

Bucky flicked his eyes away and tried to squelch his smile, but he failed miserably. He looked back up at Steve. “I’m messing this up, but. I like you. And I’m asking you out on a date.”

So many different questions bombarded Steve at once.

A date.

With Bucky.

A _vampire_.

Who. Owed Steve. A Blood Debt.

“ _Fuck._ ”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Bucky. This… really?” Steve thunked his bottle down onto the bar and jerked himself off the barstool, making people around them stare again. “Is that what this is about?”

“What what’s about?”

“Your debt. This whole blood thing. Damn it…” His mind spun a little from the alcohol and the heat of the bar, too many bodies pressed in close. His brain and senses were overstimulated, and it was a bad aesthetic. “Please tell me this isn’t about owing me, Bucky!”

“It’s… NO! It’s not!” Bucky stood and reached for him, gripping his forearm. “Steve, no! That’s… that’s not it at all!”

“You said you want to protect me.”

“I do.”

“But you want to take me on a date? Is that… more _multitasking?_ ” Steve leaned on that word, and Bucky’s eyes flattened.

“No. Steve, you don’t get it… Steve! STEVIE! Don’t… WAIT!” Bucky’s voice rose on a plaintive note. “Please wait!”

“I’ve had enough, I need out,” Steve insisted, but the crush of people wouldn’t allow him to exit. He pushed past couples grinding against each other and people who had too many lemonades and who wore far too few clothes. The stench of cologne, sweat, and alcohol abused Steve’s enhanced senses, and he’d had enough. But Steve tripped and stumbled when one patron danced their way backward into him, knocking him into a huge man on the edge of the dance floor holding a pitcher of beer. A wavelet of beer sloshed over the edge of the pitcher, and the man scowled down at him without sympathy.

“Watch it, asswipe!”

“I’m sorry, I’m just on my way out.”

“You made me spill my beer!”

“Leave him alone,” Bucky told him, and he held onto Steve again. The man was a norm, according to Steve’s nose, and he had the feeling this guy didn’t come here too often, or he wouldn’t have challenged Bucky. 

“I can handle this,” Steve muttered.

“You don’t have to, Stevie.”

Steve whipped his face around, glaring up at Bucky. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“That. Don’t… don’t defend me!”

“Yeah, pretty boy. We’re just having a little talk.”

“Don’t call him that.” That was Steve, glaring up at Mr. Bud Light. Bucky felt him tense under his grip, and his gut twisted with dread.

“Oh, boy.”

The man grinned right before he dashed his whole pitcher of beer in Steve’s face.

Bucky jerked back as the beer splashed him, too, startled by its cold, wet sting. Steve blinked rapidly, holding his arms away from his body, stunned and dripping. The blast of liquid knocked his hat off his head, and his honey blond hair was dark, hanging in lank clumps around his face. Bucky _felt_ Steve’s rage mount and bloom within moments, and he saw Steve’s hackles rise up on the back of his neck. “Oh, that’s… that’s not good…”

“The jacket. Was. Wool.” Steve’s words bit out through snaggled teeth. His pupils dilated and his eyes glowed that eerie gray. The man stared at him slack-jawed.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you? You, y-you’re o-one of th-th-them…”

“Stevie-”

Steve had held back outside with the three boys. He was only defending himself. (Even if he wasn’t trying that hard.) But this was _Bucky._ And this guy was a troublemaker. Here, in Bucky’s place of employment.

And the guy had just ruined his best coat.

Steve grabbed the guy by the collar of his flannel and drove him back, through the same crowd that he’d tried to escape a few moments ago, and he slammed him back against the stereo speakers, knocking the wind out of him. “I apologized for bumping into you,” Steve reminded him. His voice was low and gritty as he gazed into the guy’s face, and the man’s jaw quivered in fear. “Huh? Can’t accept my apology? And then you insult my friend? He’s not my boyfriend, by the way. It’s not nice to assume things about people.”

Bucky didn’t know whether to be insulted by the fact that Steve just insisted that he wasn’t his boyfriend, but he needed to handle the bigger problem of him looking like he was about eviscerate one of patrons. “Stevie, it’s okay!”

“Accidents happen,” Steve told the guy, ignoring Bucky’s insistent grip on his arm. “Sorry about your beer. If you’d been more patient, I might have even offered to buy you another. I’m broke, but I can be big about it. But, then you turned around and ruined my coat.” His breath was hot, steaming the guy’s face because they were that close, Steve bearing down on this guy, pressing him into the speaker and making it dig into his back.

“Stevie, let him go!”

“Don’t do that again. When someone apologizes, you accept it.”

“Sorry! I’m sorryI’msosorrysosorry…!”

Steve released him, and he slowly shifted back, but he was still breathing hard. “Thank you. I accept your apology.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Steve turned toward the lilting, deep feminine voice, and then looked up. And up. Into the face of a stunning woman, easily six feet tall even without the spike heels. 

“Is there something I can help you with? I don’t allow fights in my club.”

Steve glanced at Bucky and noticed that he was hugging himself, looking sheepish. “Uh. No. I don’t need help. I didn’t… mean to cause a disruption.”

“Yet, you did.”

“Ororo. I know this isn’t ideal, but, this is Steve.”

“Steve.” Then a light bulb went on in those blue eyes - almost feline, and sapphire blue - and she nodded. “Your Steve.”

“What? ‘His’ Steve?” Steve frowned, shaking his head. “I’m not ‘his Steve,’ lady.”

“His savior, then. You helped my Bucky. You took him out of that cell.”

Then it dawned on Steve who she was. “You’re…”

“Ororo Munroe.” She held out her hand to him, and she watched him expectantly. “I sired Bucky.”

“Sired… you _made_ him?”

“Well, if you prefer that term, then, yes.” Steve stared down at her hand, and slowly surrendered his. Her skin was cold to the touch, like Bucky’s, and he felt strength in those slender fingers. Like all of the other vampires he’s met, she had no discernible pulse. 

“Thank you for helping him. For bringing him home,” she said when Steve still stood there, agog and reeling. Dripping.

“This isn’t how this kind of thing is supposed to go.”

“What sort of thing, dear?”

“I don’t know. Can I just, can I go?”

She released his hand and gave him a sympathetic look. Steve felt awkward. She was so well put-together and elegant, dressed in a backless, little black dress that didn’t reach anywhere near her knees. Her legs were endless, and she had smooth, flawless brown skin. Lush waves of white hair - not blonde, not gray, but _white_ \- tumbled down her back. She gave truth to the cliche that vampires were always chosen from only the most beautiful human stock. Steve still sometimes saw his share of unremarkable blood feeders, but Ororo Munroe turned heads.

More importantly, she was an Elder.

“Keep in touch, Steve,” she told him.

Steve shook his head and headed for the exit.

“Bucky, go with him.”

“You don’t need me to work tonight?”

“Carosella can handle it,” she said, nodding to Guido at the entrance, where he was grilling a young man trying to get in with a fake ID. “Make sure he makes it home.”

Bucky nodded and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

“Bring him back. We have unfinished business.”

His doubts formed a hard little ball in his gut, but he nodded his assent before he left the club.


	5. Do-Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All right. So _that_ didn’t go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the conversations between Bucky and Steve are making me giggle at my laptop. This is one of those rare days when my family isn’t in the house to see me being a huge dork. HUGE.

Bucky caught up to Steve before he reached the end of the block. “Stevie. Wait. Please.”

“Leave me alone.”

“No. I need you to listen to me. Please.”

“Bucky.” Steve stopped and gave him a long-suffering look, and his sigh was ragged.

“I’m so sorry for what happened back there.”

“What? Me getting hit by cheap beer?”

“That. And, the whole… ‘multitasking’ thing. Maybe it sounded worse to you than it did in my head.”

“You’re getting warm.”

Bucky’s cheeks felt hot, and he hated how awkward the space between them seemed, now. This wasn’t what he pictured when he thought back to asking Steve out for a drink. Or even just thanking him for saving him. How had things gone so far _sideways_. “Can I at least get you home?”

“You’re not going to take me home!” Steve snapped.

“No! Not that, you big dork! Not ‘take you home!’ Not to MY home. Just… I want to help you get home. To _your_ home. All right?”

“Oh.” Steve chafed, wishing he hadn’t jumped to the worst (was it really the worst?) conclusion. 

“This wasn’t the way I wanted this to go,” he told him again. “It really wasn’t.”

“It’s cold out tonight. I’m wet.”

“Want a cab?”

Steve weighed the possibilities. He’d still be stuck waiting outside, damp and cold for a while. Or maybe the walk would eventually warm him up, but, still. _Ugh._ He smelled like a brewery.

Then Bucky looked sheepish. “I know you might not like this idea, but you could come up to my place, if you want. It’s right upstairs. I can at least get you a clean shirt. And I can lend you a jacket.”

“That’s a horrible idea.”

“Sorry. Guess you just want a cab, then.”

And Bucky looked a little sullen. Contrite. His hands were jammed into his pockets as he watched Steve. Steve almost hated watching his confidence deflate like that.

“I’m sorry I’m being such a bad sport,” Steve admitted. “I loved this jacket. And I hate Bud Light. All I wanted to do was go home and lay low and watch Netflix. This is a bad night. I didn’t want to change.”

“Oh, Steve. Why didn’t you say something? Is that why you’ve been in such a bad mood tonight?” Bucky’s eyes were soft and full of sympathy. 

“I just wanted to hide out in my apartment on the couch.”

“I have Netflix. And a really nice couch. Steve, let me at least make this up to you.”

“Buck, you don’t have to.”

“No. This. This, I can do. Protecting you also means not letting you catch a cold in wet clothes in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t… really catch cold, anymore.”

“But, you’re not comfortable, right?”

He had a point.

“Yeah. No.”

“Then, c’mon.” And Bucky wrapped an arm around his shoulders again and led him around the corner of the building, and then into the side alley.

“Where are we going?”

“Going in through the side entrance.” And Bucky pulled down the railing of the fire escape and gestured for Steve to climb on ahead of him.

“Side entrance?”

“The window, buddy.”

“We can’t just go in through the door?”

“Not during business hours. I don’t like people from the club seeing me going into my apartment.”

“Has that been a problem before?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

It made sense. Bucky was an attractive man. And people sometimes took liberties. Made assumptions. Steve finished climbing to the second story and let Bucky move in front of him to open the window. Bucky raised it and beckoned for Steve to climb inside the darkened apartment.

There were no noticeable food smells, because, _of course_. Steve did notice the remnant of coffee grounds from the kitchen. French roast. He catalogued the other scents, including Bucky’s cologne. Carpet freshening granules. Toothpaste. Floor cleaner. 

Bucky was hygienic.

When Bucky turned on the light in the living room, Steve noticed that it was neat as a pin. “Make yourself at home. Let me take your coat.”

“It’s ruined.”

“It’s wet,” Bucky corrected him. “Don’t catch a chill.” He held out his hand, and Steve carefully shrugged out of the jacket. His hair was still damp, and so was the collar and front placket of his shirt. He looked uncomfortable, and goosebumps raised themselves on his skin from the cold air outside. Steve handed him the jacket, and Bucky smoothed it with his hands. “Hang out for a sec. I’ll get you a shirt and let you clean up.”

“Thanks.” Steve glanced around the living room and decided to sit on the edge of the leather ottoman that matched Bucky’s overstuffed recliner. His furniture was all chocolate brown leather and chrome. He had a few art prints by artists that Steve recognized: Gaugin. Chagall. Klimt. Van Gogh. Heavy black curtains framed the windows, anchored open with tie-backs. Steve noticed that the drapes were lined, all the better to block out the sunlight during the day. Smart.

Bucky had throw pillows in gaudy, dark prints and small figurines and knick-knacks sitting on small shelves mounted to the wall. He had an enormous bookcase filled with hardcovers that made Steve itch to skim through them. Bucky had a medium-sized plasma flat screen TV mounted to the wall, too, but Steve wondered how much TV Bucky even got around to watching, given his occupation and lifestyle.

“When I can’t sleep, I watch a lot of DIY and talk shows. And Food Network.”

“You don’t really eat.”

“I just like watching it being prepared.”

“Yeah. I do, too.” Steve tried to hide his smile. There was something soothing about cooking shows, even though Steve could burn water.

“I sleep a lot during the day, but sometimes, I just… hide out. Pull the drapes, wrap myself up like a burrito on the couch, and veg.”

“You’ve just described all of my weekends, pal.”

“Wanna get washed up a little?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“There’s towels and washcloths in the bathroom. Around the corner. I’ll find you that shirt.” Bucky disappeared into the back of the apartment, and Steve headed into the bathroom. He closed the door and shed his shirt, and he noticed with disgust that his undershirt was damp, too. He took it off and laid both shirts on the vanity. Steve ran the water into the sink until it grew hot and dipped a washcloth into the spray, then swabbed it over his chilled skin. He soaped the cloth with some of the liquid Softsoap that claimed to be apple-scented and scrubbed himself until he couldn’t smell the beer anymore. Steve rinsed himself off and patted his ruddy skin dry, and then realized he faced the obstacle of Bucky seeing him half-dressed.

Then, he grimly reminded himself: This man has seen you stark naked and filthy.

But Bucky, despite getting hit with some of the beer, still looked perfectly groomed and like he stepped out of _GQ_. He wasn’t a skinny runt covered in old scars who felt like he didn’t fit in his own skin. Bucky didn’t need to bring Steve into his club. There were plenty of norms and vamps alike downstairs in that club who would be glad to go upstairs with Bucky for a nightcap. 

Steve suddenly didn’t know if that was what this was. If Bucky had planned for it to be like this, with his talk of “do-overs.” 

Before Steve could make up his mind to walk back out into the living room, he heard Bucky’s low knock on the door and startled. “Hey. Stevie. I have a couple of shirts. Do you have a preference about color?”

“Uh. No.” Steve’s stomach fluttered with panic. But Bucky wasn’t trying to barge inside or making any attempt to leer at him.

“Want me to just leave them outside the door?”

“Why don’t you just…” Steve braced himself and opened the door a crack, peeking out at Bucky through it. Bucky’s lips curled, and he bit the lower one. Amusement danced in his eyes. He thrust the shirt in his left hand, a blue one, toward the crack, and Steve opened the door just enough to grab it. Then he clapped the door shut on Bucky’s smile, which was Bucky’s cue to put the other one away.

“I guess blue’s fine,” Bucky muttered to himself. Poor guy was red as a beet, he noticed. Why did that appeal to Bucky so much?

Steve Rogers was _bashful_. 

Steve tugged on the shirt, noticed it was backwards, then yanked his arms out of the sleeves, spun it around, and tried again. Okay. Okay.

The shirt was _enormous_ on him. He was swimming in it. Great. 

“I look like I’ve been playing in my dad’s closet,” he groused to his reflection.

“Still okay in there, Stevie?” Bucky called out to him.

“Fine,” he called back, and this time, he decided there was no point in hiding in there any longer. Steve slapped off the bathroom light and returned to the living room, and Bucky glanced up from the mugs slowly rotating in his microwave.

“How’s the shirt working out for… oh. Wow.” Bucky’s shoulders jerked, and he covered his mouth with his hand, but not before Steve saw the its corners curling up at his expense.

“Don’t!”

Bucky sputtered, snickering and waving at the sleeves that fell down over Steve’s wrists, halfway down his hands, and the shell of blue thermal waffle knit that swamped his narrow body. The henley’s buttons gaped open, leaving the center of his sternum bare. Bucky could see Steve’s prominent collarbone until Steve tried to jerk the opening closed, but then it sagged open again and he saw the _other_ collarbone.

“You suck,” Steve told him.

“Hey, you didn’t even dry your hair.” Steve looked like a very cute drowned rat.

“It’s not that damp, anymore.”

“What’s the point of putting on a dry shirt if you have wet hair?” Bucky wanted to know. “C’mon, Stevie. Dry off.” He brushed past Steve and headed back to the bathroom. “I have a hair dryer.”

“Oh. No. Don’t bother with that, Buck.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t use them. They blow out my eardrums. I can’t stand that much noise up close.”

“Oh.” Bucky emerged from the bathroom again, looking sheepish. “I guess that might be a problem.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“Well, here. Take another towel.”

“You don’t have to-”

“C’mere.” Bucky returned to the living room and took Steve’s arm and lead him back to the ottoman. He gave Steve a little shove, urging him to sit.

“Bucky, you don’t have to-” His words were cut off and muffled by the towel as Bucky began to scrub his hair dry with the soft, Egyptian cotton. 

“God, it was cheap beer.”

“At least it wasn’t dark ale.”

“No, it wasn’t, but, still. Ew.”

“Right?” Steve wrinkled his nose.

“Your hair’s a neat color. It’s… like a caramel. There’s a couple of different shades of blond going on in here.” Bucky’s fingers sifted through the strands as he dried it. It felt soft.

“My mom was dishwater blond.”

“Do you look like her?”

“Yeah. People have always told me that, anyway. I guess.” Bucky’s hands were brisk but gentle as he kneaded the hair behind Steve’s ears, blotting and rubbing his short locks. And it felt nice to lean back slightly into Bucky’s touch, to feel the slow, massaging strokes against his scalp. Steve was tired, and even though the low buzz from the alcohol already faded away - thanks, Bud Light Guy - Bucky was making him feel relaxed and drowsy.

“Did she have eyes like yours?”

“Like mine?”

“Blue,” Bucky murmured. “With those lashes.”

Steve flushed hotly, and he stared down at his hands where they lay in his lap.

“You have pretty eyes, Stevie.”

Steve’s mouth didn’t want to form words. He licked his lips, which suddenly felt dry.

“At least I can see with ‘em, now. Couldn’t do that so well, before.”

“Before you changed?”

“Yeah. I needed bifocals. Couldn’t see shit. Always had migraines.”

“Wow.”

“Vision’s twenty-twenty now.”

“Must be nice.”

“Small consolation.”

Bucky wouldn’t argue with him about that. That was the trade-off for their gifts. Long life, but you only really lived half of it, never seeing daylight again. You gave up “normal.” You gave up friends and family. There was no such thing as “stability” or “best laid plans” ever again.

“They’re still pretty.”

Bucky’s voice was a soft husk. His hands slowed their task, and he let the edge of the towel drape over Steve’s shoulder. He combed his fingers through the hopeless wreck of Steve’s hair, trying to smooth it back from his face. “You’ve got bed head.”

Steve’s eyes dilated as he tipped his head back to stare into his face. Bucky’s mouth went dry, and he watched Steve’s breathing quicken. Matching his own.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Buck?”

“I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

“You… oh.”

Steve’s voice was quiet and devoid of argument. Bucky’s fingers curled into the back of Steve’s hair, urging him to tip his head further back, and Steve met him halfway, reaching up to cup Bucky’s nape. Steve’s world tilted off its axis when Bucky’s lips met his.

Bucky’s lips were soft and hot. Steve shuddered beneath their caress. He never realized how much he needed this contact, this token of affection until Bucky offered it to him. It had been too long. Bucky retreated, and his eyes searched Steve’s for a moment. His fingers were still clutching at his hair.

“Bucky…”

“Was that wrong?” 

Steve shook his head. “I didn’t expect it. But I didn’t hate it.”

Bucky’s smile came back, slow and smug. “Punk. Way to shoot a guy d-”

Steve pulled him back down and kissed him with dizzying heat. _Hungry_. Steve was so hungry for him once he tasted him that it was hard to back down. He nipped at Bucky, drawing that plump lower lip between his teeth to make him open for him, and Bucky whimpered and Steve’s grip on his nape felt firm, tantalizing. Bucky dropped the damp towel, needing both hands to touch him. Bucky’s fingers skimmed the line of his jaw while his other arm wrapped around his chest. Steve craned his neck up, head tipped back while he drank kisses greedily from Bucky’s mouth, fingers tangled in his soft, dark hair.

They came up for air (Steve needed it, at any rate). Bucky’s eyes were glazed with passion and his lips were puffy from kissing. Steve was flushed all over and he was panting. The microwave dinged.

“I was going to make us some tea.”

Steve huffed. “You party animal, you.”

Bucky snickered. They disengaged, even though it was difficult. Bucky already saw the questions rolling through Steve’s head, wheels turning full speed.

Bucky retreated into the kitchen. “You take yours with honey?”

“If you have any.”

“I do. It’s good.”

“Bucky?” Steve felt flustered, still processing what just happened. “I’ve. I’ve never. Done this, before.”

“Never…?” Bucky felt his stomach dip. Oh, God. Was Steve a virgin?

“Kissed. A vampire.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“It’s not like I’ve kissed that many people, anyway. Norms, or lycans, y’know? I mean, I’m not gonna walk around talking about all these people that I’ve kissed, or been with…” Steve’s mouth ran on autopilot. “I mean, I guess what I was trying to preface is that I don’t kiss vampires every day. Or… anyone. Every day.”

“Am I your first, Stevie?” Steve saw amusement twinkling in Bucky’s eyes when he craned his head around from the two mugs of tea he was preparing.

“God, this is ridiculous…”

“Once you go Drac, you never go back.”

“That… was horrible.” Bucky’s grin widened. “You actually went there. Oh, my God. What was I thinking?”

“I’ve got a million of ‘em.”

“Please, spare me.”

“C’mon, Stevie. I might be just your type.” Bucky bit his lip. “Just need to be crossed and matched…”

Steve feigned a look of disgust, but he snickered.

“Admit it. I’m wearing you down.”

“I never claimed to have taste.”

“HEY!” Then, “So. Does that mean you _like_ me?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Punk. Come drink your tea.”

*

 

Bucky made a decent cup of tea. They stayed up and chatted until they grew hoarse. Steve didn’t realize how time had flown until Bucky removed their mugs and read the microwave clock.

“Shit. It’s four AM. I have to get you home.” 

Steve didn’t know whether to find it comforting that Bucky didn’t assume that he was staying, or feel a little bereft that he had to leave. But he knew it was appropriate to go home. Steve needed space and time to think about what happened between them. There was also the matter of Bucky’s debt. Steve hated that it would color their friendship. When Steve found him in that cell, his only thought was to spare him any more of the suffering that he’d endured himself. Steve would have freed _anyone_ that Pierce treated like a science project. So what if Bucky just so happened to be a very well-connected vampire whose sire ran her coven with an iron hand? When Steve found him, he was just another serial number engraved on a plaque outside his cell. But, now that he had the chance to talk to him, and to truly know him…

That frightened him even more. Because now, Bucky Barnes became someone Steve could eventually _lose_. Bucky gave him an odd look as he came back, stuffing his wallet into his pocket.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s… nothing. I’m just tired.”

“Go home and crawl into bed,” Bucky told him, shrugging, and he even yawned himself. “I have a date with my pajamas and fuzzy blanket.”

That sounded so nice.

“I’m calling you a cab.”

“I can take care of it.”

“I have friends. Don’t worry about it, Stevie.”

They made their way down the fire escape again, and by this time, the bar was closing down, and Bucky heard Guido barking at the stragglers to move along, last call was over half an hour ago. Steve shivered in his borrowed shirt.

“Sorry about your coat,” Bucky told him.

“It was old, anyway,” Steve hedged. And it was. But it was still his favorite.

“Hey. C’mere.” Steve wasn’t too cold, and he contemplated shifting to benefit from his fur, but Bucky wrapped an arm around him. Oh.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” Bucky chewed his bottom lip to hide his little smile. Steve was blushing. Bucky tightened his grip, drawing him closer, and Steve felt warm against his side. Bucky remembered holding him in the dark; his body remembered the feel of those slender limbs curled around him and his low breathing. He hated to send him home. Bucky rubbed Steve’s shoulder through the soft waffle knit of his blue shirt and had a grain of an idea:

Steve might eventually return his shirt. That meant he would need to see him again. Bucky sent off a text on his phone, one-handed. Steve smirked up at him, then looked away. 

Being held was… nice. Steve felt safe. He reached up and touched Bucky’s hand where it lay on his shoulder, felt Bucky tense for a moment. He glanced up at him, and Bucky’s lips quirked. Those pretty eyes crinkled again. “What?”

“Nothing.” Steve curled his fingers around Bucky’s, squeezing them. He let Bucky take a bit of his weight, leaning into him, because he was tired, too, and didn’t suppress his yawns. 

Bucky felt the low buzz of Steve’s energy, a low, fluctuating pulse. Norms felt like this, when he fed from one, or even when Bucky was just in the mood to play. But werewolves had a stronger buzz, due to their enhanced metabolism and nervous system, stronger heartbeat and warmer blood temperature. Vampires lacked this buzz; the virus that rendered them “undead” also made them cold-blooded, slowing their heartbeat to barely two or three beats a minute. Bucky could still feel an adrenaline rush on rare occasions. Like, being tased. Or, being dragged out of a cell toward freedom. Or during a frenzied, desperate fuck. But, Steve’s expression was calm, and trusting. Bucky wondered what changed to make Steve give it to him.

They stood like that out on the curb until Steve’s cab arrived. Bucky reached into his pocket and handed the driver his credit card. 

“I can take care of the fare, Buck.”

“Next time,” Bucky told him, even though he had no intention of letting Steve pay for a cab to come and see him again. Considering the neighborhood Steve lived in, a cab ride was a luxury. Bucky let go of him, opening the back passenger door for him, already regretting the loss of his contact. “Make sure he makes it inside all in one piece,” Bucky told the driver.

“Safe and sound,” the man told him, nodding. “Warm enough?” he asked Steve, craning his head slightly as he addressed the skinny guy huddled behind him dressed in what looked like his old brother’s shirt.

“Snug as a bug,” Steve joked. He smirked at Bucky through the window before he rolled it down. “Next time, maybe we won’t hang out in your rave bar, Buck.” He leaned his head out and grinned up at Bucky.

“Sure. I buy you a drink, and you talk smack about my club.” Bucky bent down and kissed Steve, more than a little pleased when Steve craned his neck up to meet him halfway. “You plan something, then.”

“Maybe I will.” He said that like it was a challenge.

“Night, Stevie.”

“Good morning, Buck.” Bucky huffed as the cab pulled away. Of course Steve would remind him to hurry up and get back inside.

It was just nice that he took the time to think about him.

Guido approached him and gave Bucky’s shoulder a little shake. “Hey. What’s the deal with Fido? Is Boss okay wit’ dis?”

Bucky swatted his hand away, and his eyes glowed red with warning. “Don’t. Just, don’t.”

“‘Kay, Barnes. M’jus’ sayin’. Y’know how some folks feel ‘bout creepers hangin’ out around the club, dat’s all.” Guido held up his hands in a _Don’t blame me_ gesture. 

“Steve’s a good man. And don’t call them that.”

“I ain’t sayin’ da lil’ guy ain’t ‘good.’ But he ain’t exactly a _man_. Lie down wit’ dogs, an’ ya might come up wit’ fleas, Barnes.”

Bucky gripped his bouncer’s arm tight enough to make him wince. “Don’t let me catch those words coming out of your dirty mouth again. When Steve Rogers is here, he’s legit. You’ll make him welcome. Just ask Ororo.”

Guido looked doubtful, but he shrugged, shaking off Bucky’s grip. “Ya don’t hafta be sore ‘bout it. Geez…”

Bucky took himself back upstairs and locked up. He performed his bedtime routine, locking his windows and door, pulling the heavy drapes, and pulling out the bag of blood from the fridge to set it into the sink. Bucky liked his blood at room temperature; when it was too cold, it made his teeth ache and gave his whole body the chills. Bucky changed into his beloved pajama pants and a Grateful Dead concert t-shirt that was about forty years old and still smelled like hash.

Bucky made sure the blinds in his bedroom were completely drawn, adjusting the edge of the sheet he had nailed up along the frame to block out all of the light. He turned down the covers and crawled inside, tucking himself in tight. Bucky set the alarm on his phone and clicked off the bedside lamp. He fell asleep with visions of Steve hunched over the bar, dangling a bottle of hard lemonade between his fingers and giving Bucky that lopsided smile, backlit by the strobe from the dance floor.

He hoped Steve returned ~~his shirt~~ to him soon.

*

“Take it easy,” the cabby told him as Steve gently shut the car door. Steve waved to him from the front steps of his apartment before he trotted inside. At least at the ass crack of dawn, none of Steve’s neighbors were up. Except Clint. Because, of _course_.

Steve startled at the sound of Clint’s apartment door opening just as he walked past it. His former friend was eating ice cream straight out of the carton, wearing Scooby Doo pajamas as he leaned against the doorframe. Steve saw the glow of his television behind him; he was watching _Turner and Hooch_ in the dark. Clint had a new scrape on his cheek, covered by a garish Looney Tunes band-aid. He stared down at Steve in amusement. “Someone had the night off,” he mused. “What’ve you got on?”

“A shirt,” Steve deadpanned. “They’re all the rage, now.”

Clint’s brow rumpled. He set the ice cream pint down on the floor behind him, because screw hygiene, and walked up to him, sniffing Steve’s scent. “What is that…?” He crowded Steve against the wall, trying to take a whiff of his hair. “Fuck, Steve, why do you smell like a leech?”

“Get off me, Barton!” Steve swatted at his hands, then shoved Clint back when he tried to smell him again. “Manners?!”

“You did before, too.” Clint sounded suspicious. “Where have you been hanging out, Rogers?”

“Not with the pack,” Steve challenged. “So, it shouldn’t matter to you where I wander off to, should it.”

“So, you’ll spend your time with vampires, instead.” Clint whistled, shaking his head. “Wow. You’re really moving up in the world.”

“Good night, Barton.” Steve crammed his key into the lock and pushed his way inside, but before he could close the door, Clint blocked him, leaning half of his body into Steve’s apartment.

“Hey. Just… be careful. They hate us. You remember that, right?”

“I haven’t forgotten, Clint.” Yet, Steve thought of Ororo. Imposing, but polite. Soft-spoken. Her eyes sent a chill down his spine, but they weren’t cruel.

“Way before your time, junior, I remember this guy. Leeches got a hold of him. Took him out in the middle of nowhere on a full moon. Hunted him down and then skinned him alive for his pelt.” 

Nausea clutched at Steve’s stomach, and he wouldn’t look at Clint.

“Keep that in mind when you’re getting cozy with your new pal, Rogers.”

“Ice cream’s melting,” Steve told him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint let go of Steve’s door, and Steve kicked it shut after him out of spite.

His hands shook.


	6. Reshaping History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce and McCoy decide they want their favorite test subjects back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies. It’s going to get violent again. Warnings for dismemberment and minor character death.

Tony Stark loved shiny things.

His father, Howard, had been a silversmith in Boston during the 1700s. As a child, Tony would dog Howard’s footsteps, huddled beside his work bench and swathed in a protective apron while his father worked the molten silver into various items. Spoons. Cups. Candlesticks.

And bullets.

It was satisfying to watch the thin stream of metal pour from Howard’s pot into the molds, emitting acrid steam. When Howard shaved down the cooled bullets and collected the shavings into his bin to be melted down again, Tony would pick one up just to marvel at its smoothness and cool surface, and he would stared at it closely, capturing the tiny fragment of his own reflection.

“These will keep our family safe, Anthony,” he told him, offering his only son the assurance that rang hollow during those times. Silver bullets were costly, and precious. “We’ve fought long and hard for everything we have, and no mangy animals are going to take it away from us while I draw breath.”

“No, they won’t!” Howard ruffled Tony’s dark hair and gave him a little shove.

“Grab that broom and clean up, there’s a lad.”

America was the land of opportunities for all those lucky enough to land upon her shores. Boston, in particular, was a melting of cultures and languages. Some locals scoffed at the rumors of witches living among them. 

No one, however, doubted the existence of werewolves.

They came in the middle of the night, when the moon rose in all of its silvery glory, putting the glittering stars around it to shame. Livestock often turned up dead, their torn carcasses telling a grisly tale. Small pets often went missing, too. Stark’s closest neighbor, Warren Worthington, often filled his ear while they visited the Hellfire Club for a tankard of ale.

“Fast one, this one. Hairy bugger. Raided my hen house, made off with two of my finest chickens. I couldn’t load my rifle fast enough. I’m planning to fence it off with barbed wire.”

“Not iron,” Stark told him.

Warren huffed. “How else does a man build a fence?”

“From metal,” Stark conceded, “but not from iron. Or aluminum. Silver.”

“Silver? That’s… costly. And ridiculous.”

“No. Mind me when I tell you, Warren, old bean, that a fence of barbed, nasty silver will do the trick. These beasties aren’t your garden variety wolves. They’re cursed. They can’t tolerate the purity of silver.”

Warren looked fascinated. “My mother always told me stories at night of faeries burning when you caged them in iron.”

“What faeries have you ever known to steal your chickens, Worthington?”

Warren mulled this over his ale. By the end of the week, Howard sold him a case of his newest bullets, gleaming and deadly. Warren never had a problem with losing his chickens again.

Tony lived a life of relative privilege and comfort. Maria Stark finally convinced Howard to send their only son to a private academy to expand his horizons, refusing to let him spend his entire childhood covered in metal shavings and soot. Tony outshone his peers every subject, but he was a hopeless delinquent. Maria sighed over the correspondence from the school’s headmaster over supper every month and prayed that Tony would outgrow this particular phase. They expelled him when he turned sixteen, and the Starks were the talk of their neighborhood, to Maria’s shame. Howard merely returned Tony to his workshop, where he preferred to be, honestly. Like father, like son.

Tony also shared his father’s proclivities for ale, gambling and women of ill repute. When he wasn’t casting ammunition, Tony attended the Hellfire Club and wiled away many an evening in its cellars. Maria stood tight-lipped in the foyer of their plush home, hair sticking out from her cap, dressed in her sleeping gown, waiting up for him to come staggering in.

“You’ve made it home all in one piece.”

“Good morning, Mother.” Tony would kiss her soft, withered cheek, wander back to his room, and collapse as soon as his jacket was unbuttoned. Maria would scold him over their luncheon about the need to return home at a reasonable hour, not just to stop their neighbors’ wagging tongues, but for his own safety.

“You shouldn’t risk yourself. The Millers’ son went missing two days ago. He still hasn’t been found. His cap turned up in the commons. It was torn and covered in blood.”

“I never walk through the commons at night, Mother. Not when I have a perfectly good carriage.”

“Do you want one of those wretched creatures to snatch you up?”

“They won’t! Don’t worry about me getting eaten, Mother. Surely, I taste terrible.”

“Anyone who marinates themselves in as much ale as you do surely would,” Howard quipped as he cut into his rarebit.

Howard and Maria resigned themselves to the fact that their son was… stubborn. They began to turn their head the other way, ignoring his habits as long as he continued to contribute to Howard’s business. Tony showed true talent for making weaponry, and he expanded Howard’s shop into a factory. 

Howard and Maria Stark wouldn’t live long enough to witness the pinnacle of their son’s success. The sheriff arrived one morning, not long after Tony came home smelling like wine and perfume. When the sheriff informed him that their carriage was found run off the road with its doors torn off, the horses murdered and dripping entrails in the grass, and his parents both lying several yards away - in pieces - Tony’s knees buckled, refusing to hold his weight.

Tony Stark learned firsthand that werewolves were savage creatures. Silver bullets were too good for them. Nearly three centuries hadn’t changed his opinion much. You could at least reason with vampires. Tony considered himself a reasonable man, surely.

 

That being said…

 

_Present day:_

 

“Barnes. What. The FUCK.”

Bucky looked up from Ororo’s inventory sheet and watched Tony walk into the bar like he owned it. He was clean-scrubbed and groomed, but he had on his favorite, raglan-sleeved Pink Floyd t-shirt and a battered pair of jeans. “Why was I the last person to hear that you were snatched from the club?”

“I was snatched from the alley _behind_ the club,” Bucky argued. “Slight difference.”

“Oh. Well. That makes _so_ much more sense.” Tony scrubbed at his nape, rolling his eyes. “But, the fact remains that you were _snatched_ from here.”

“That, it does.”

“Why aren’t you more alarmed about this?”

“Because I survived it. And I had help.”

“You had help. Well, that just puts my mind to rest. Don’t panic, everyone!” The busboys behind the counter paused in wiping down some clean, damp pitchers, enjoying his histrionics; they were commonplace, and legend. “This is a safe haven, except for the kraken in the kitchen! You might run into the Boogey Man in the basement!” Tony threw up his hands and stared at Bucky. “Seriously? You’re not more concerned?”

“I’m still here. All in one piece.” He paused a beat, then added, “And technically, I’m already dead, so.”

One of the busboys tittered, then ducked Tony’s look of annoyance. “Kidnappings are bad for business, last time I checked?”

Bucky shrugged and made a noncommittal noise. “Business has been pretty good.” He waved the inventory sheet. “We’re out of vodka. Those new cocktails have been doing pretty well.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Why not? You _like_ vodka.”

“That’s not… yes, I do. Just… just, don’t. Stop that. You were jumped?”

“Jumped? Not so much. Tased. Tied up. Crammed into the back of a van. And then held captive and drained of my blood.”

A vein in Tony’s jaw ticked. “Munroe knows about this?”

“Of course I do.” Ororo’s smooth voice carried from the doorway of her office. “Have you had coffee yet, Tony?”

“Of course I have. But you’re asking me that because _you_ have coffee, unless I’m mistaken?”

‘’Of course I do.”

“All right. Coffee first, then.”

“Want a shot with that?” Bucky asked him.

“No. I’m cutting back. Pepper says I’m looking a little bloated.”

Bucky smirked. “You’re so whipped.”

“No. Today’s Tuesday. Candle wax, not whips.”  
Ororo stifled what might have been a laugh as she filled Tony’s mug with coffee and brought it to him. He inhaled the steam and took a greedy sip. “Okay. That’s not as good as sex, but it’s damn close.”

“Peruvian blond, first beans of the season.”

“You have impeccable taste.”

Bucky sensed that this was when Tony was going to call him an idiot.

He didn’t disappoint him. “So. Barnes. Know how cliche it is to get yourself snatched in a back alley when someone shakes their tail under your nose? Have I taught you _nothing?_ ”

Bucky exhaled roughly through his nose and pinched its bridge.

“That was stupid as hell, Barnes!”

“He’s learned the error of his ways,” Ororo chided gently. “And he’s survived to tell the tale, dear. Don’t be so harsh with him.” Ororo cocked one brow at Tony, reminding him, “You used to frequent dark alleys.”

Tony opened his mouth, then shut it. He turned away from her and drank deeply of the dark brew clutched tightly in his grip.

“No comment?” Ororo asked.

“Mm-mnnnnnh,” Tony hummed in the negative, against the ceramic mug.

“That’s what I thought.”

Tony changed his mind, however. “Hey, Barnes? Just… don’t. Okay? Do as I say, not as I do. You know that much by now, right? Huh? Learn enough from other people’s mistakes for bragging rights.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Bucky asked, shrugging.

“Where was the fun in being drained and tortured?” Ororo’s voice held a cheerful lilt that Bucky would have resented if she had been anyone else.

“Thursday,” Tony told her. “That happens on Thursday.”

Bucky’s face went blank. “I didn’t need to know that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I _really_ didn’t.”

“Hey,” Tony said, “speaking of alleys… is there any feed?” He went to one of the security cams over the doorway and examined it. Small, discreet and powerful, the cameras were one of his most useful inventions. Ororo took Rapture’s security and the safety of her patrons seriously, and until Bucky’s disappearance, it had been a safe haven for the undead, shifters and norms alike.

“It was cut off,” Ororo informed him. “We reviewed it already. The camera by the back exit was disabled just before Bucky was taken.”

“Disabled?” Tony scowled. “They’re practically indestructible.”

“Go out and take a look.”

Tony took his depleted mug with him into the alley. “Bring me that stool,” he ordered Bucky, who huffed at his imperious tone, but he obeyed him, carrying a leather-topped stool after him. Tony propped it against the wall and stepped up onto it, reaching up to detach the security cam from its anchor. “Huh.” Tony squinted at it. “It’s not damaged,” he murmured. Tony opened the back panel with a tiny screwdriver (he always had at least one with him at all times) and examined its wires and circuits. He pressed a small button, and that made a miniature holographic display light up and fan across the surface of the brownstone wall.

“Oh. That’s… odd.”

“What?” Bucky’s brow furrowed.

“It’s not… broken. The signal was jammed. Someone managed to disable it. The feed got eaten.”

“Someone disabled it?”

“Guido is the only other person who knows the codes. He was working the front entrance all night,” Ororo pointed out, but her voice was hard.

“Carosella can’t even get a stuck piece of bread out of the toaster,” Tony reminded her. “No. This was a hack.”

“Did they do it remotely?” Bucky wondered.

“I need time to work on it.” Tony turned off the display and snapped the panel shut. “I’m taking this home. I’ll replace it, but tell the staff to use the front exit only.  Escorts for everybody at end of shift.”

“Certainly.” Ororo’s face was grim. “If our club has been compromised…”

“There’s no ‘if,’ Munroe.” Tony contemplated the small device in his hands. “Bucky getting snatched could just be the beginning.”

“The question, now, is _why._ ”

*

 

Steve waited for the northbound bus as he watched the sun come up after a long shift. Jameson had received five more wire stories, making Steve adjust his layout _again_. His eyes were burning and his neck was cramped, and it felt good to get out of his stifling cubicle. Commuters were already on the streets, and he saw shop owners raising security screens and unlocking their doors already. Steve was grateful that his urge to change hadn’t been strong; the moon was on a waning cycle, giving him a slight reprieve.

Steve flinched at the sound of his bench neighbor’s music, blaring rap music that he heard despite the fact that she wore earbuds. Kid was looking at a bad case of tinnitus… To each their own. The bus gradually arrived, making everyone in the bus vestibule crane their necks around its edge to watch for it before they stood. Steve read the ads on the side of it, noticing the new banner. 

_Piercetech Health Systems. Building a Better YOU._

Steve felt a wave of nausea as he stared into the visage of the man who held him captive and stripped his body of its secrets, beaming a veneered smile, blue eyes crinkling and hiding the monster underneath. The poster was printed with bullet points of services that Piercetech offered: Joint replacement. Deformity correction. Surgical implants. Skin grafts. Scar reconstruction. And, cell rejuvenation. _Look younger tomorrow!_

The girl beside him rose and hurried toward the bus steps as its folding door opened with a crisp snap. She peered back at him and cocked her head, removing an earbud. “You coming, buddy?” she asked.

“Just… in a minute,” he murmured. His head reeled. _Fuck._

Cell rejuvenation.

 _His_ cells. And Bucky’s.

Pierce was selling a piece of their immortality to the norms. And he’d harvest what he needed from every shifter and vamp that he could get his dirty hands on. Steve lurched as he stood and wordlessly crammed his fare card into the reader before he took his seat.

His hackles stayed up for the rest of the day. When he collapsed into bed, Steve pulled the covers over his head and tried to block out the memories of screams and blood. Despite his success in taking Bucky from the facility, the memory of another life he failed to save haunted him. 

He deserved to be alone. Shunned. Or worse.

He wondered if Bucky would think he was worth protecting if he knew, Blood Debt be damned.

*

 

“We lost our patch into their system.”

“Blast. How soon before we can re-establish the link?”

“It’ll take me a few days to program a new back-door code to get in.”

“Then, get to work. I want results. I want my specimens back.” Pierce sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Damn Stark. He’s always managed to get in my way, like a fly buzzing your ear every ten seconds.”

“On it, boss.” Pierce’s programmer, Ramsey, was young, slight and blond, with shrewd blue eyes and the face of a choir boy. He was young and smug, lived off of caffeine and sugar cereals, and he was a security risk on four continents. He wrote ransomware in his sleep and hacked nuclear codes just to prove that he _could_. He reminded Pierce of a younger version of himself. He didn’t trust him, but he kept him on the payroll. 

“You could always be more direct. You’ll never catch them napping again, even if you re-establish your plant,” Hank mused as he entered Pierce’s office. He was cleaning his glasses on a small rag. Betadine stains flecked his white lab coat, but despite that, he looked fresh and relaxed. You could never tell that he had been awake for eighteen hours straight working in the lab, processing tissue specimens from an unfortunate lycan preadolescent whose body Pierce’s operatives had stolen from the morgue. Ramsey shivered as Hank caught his eye. Those eyes… so brittle and hard. There was something feral in Hank’s regard that always unsettled him. He clapped his laptop shut, tucked it under his arm and fled the office, trying not to brush too close to him.

“More direct,” Pierce said.

“Just take them. Simple enough.”

“They’re still monsters. And they’re aware of us. It’s better to be subtle.”

A low, hunkering growl escaped Hank. “Don’t use that word.”

“What? Monsters?” Pierce huffed a laugh. “Feeling sentimental, McCoy?”

“I find it distasteful.”

“Of course you do.”

Hank turned and swept out of his office. His hackles were still up. Pierce shook his head and went back to reading the old feed from Stark’s security cam. The footage cut off just before Bucky was hit by the taser. Perhaps McCoy was right.

There was something to be said for being direct.

*

“Parker! Where’s Rogers?” Steve heard Jonah’s shout from across the cubicle farm and flinched from behind his monitor.

“Uh, he’s… here, sir,” Peter offered as he glanced around the wall at Steve. “Unless you’re not?” he inquired on a whisper.

“Can’t get any worse,” Steve reminded him, sighing.

“Yo! He’s right here!” Peter called back before he escaped to his own desk, Starbucks tumbler in hand. Steve listened to Jonah’s familiar, thudding footfalls against the track carpeting and his low grumbles of “What do I even pay that shrimp for if he can’t even do a layout?” and hated his life a little more. Jonah looked florid and annoyed. He leaned against the frame of the cubicle and folded his arms.

“My three-year-old nephew can write better cutlines, Rogers.”

“Be he can’t use Photoshop.”

Jameson growled, narrowing his eyes. “Funny. That’s cute. Fix it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The kerning’s off on the center column, page A-3,” Jonah added. “Might need to get your eyes checked, Rogers.”

The kerning was fine. “I’ll look at it again, Mr. Jameson, sir.”

“And you overcropped that camera-ready art from the funeral home!”

“It went too far over the gutter!”

“I don’t give a damn, Parker! Give ‘em their money’s worth for what they paid for ad space!”

Steve stifled the growl that began to rise in his throat.

“Did… did you just _growl_ at me, Rogers?!”

Steve straightened up in his seat and shook his head. “Nope. Not me. No, sir, Mr. Jameson, sir…”

“Get back to work! FIX THAT LAYOUT! What am I paying you for???” He stomped out of Steve’s cubicle, taking the lingering stench of cigar smoke and Aqua Velva with him; Steve wrinkled his nose. He hated being downwind of his boss _so much_ with his enhanced senses.

“Can’t get any worse, huh?” Peter winced. “Man, I hate it when he’s in that mood.”

“Don’t you have to go take pictures?”

“Not at this hour, pal. Not unless there’s a five-car pileup or aliens land in Central Park,” Peter quipped. 

Steve’s brow quirked. “Aliens? Seriously?”

“Why not?” Peter had that look on his face that he got whenever he was ready to geek out about Star Trek or Carl Sagan, but then something across the room caught his eye. “Uh… hey, buddy. You lost?”

“Who is it?” Steve asked, right before his nose told him _exactly_ who. He heard his light footsteps with the slight scuff of his right heel and heard his slow, steady pulse and heartbeat.

Bucky. Steve skidded out of his cubicle backwards in his rolling chair, and he returned Bucky’s grin. He was dressed in a soft-looking black and white plaid flannel shirt and dark jeans that lovingly hugged his long legs. His hair was loose and gleaming like he’d just washed it and worked a little product into it. Bucky carried a plastic shopping bag in one hand, and a pizza box in the other.

“Nope. i’m just where I wanted to be. I was just looking for this guy.” Bucky nodded down to Steve as he approached. “Figured you might be hungry. And I was bored, so.”

“You just fixed that, and I can fix that.”

“Kinda figured as much.”

And Bucky’s eyes roamed over Steve, taking him in. In his work clothes, Steve looked polished and slightly preppy, and definitely more buttoned up than Bucky was used to seeing him. His wildness was nowhere to be found, and Bucky almost missed it. Steve was grinning up at him, appreciating what he saw, too, unless Bucky was mistaken, and Bucky bit the corner of his lip. “Can you take a dinner break now?”

“No.” Bucky’s face fell, until Steve pronounced, “That doesn’t mean I _won’t._ It just has to be short?”

“It won’t take long to finish this. You know I get into trouble when you aren’t around, pal.”

Peter’s eyebrows rose and he hummed under his breath. “Right. I’ll just… go that way. Uh, I’m Peter.” He reached out to shake Bucky’s hand, until he noticed his were full. “Oh. Never mind. Hi. And, bye.”

“Bucky, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, man. Feed this guy, so he doesn’t give us another stinky layout.”

“Hey!” Steve flipped him off, but Peter smirked his way back to his cubicle.

“Save me some pizza!”

“Not happening, Parker!”

“So. This is where you work.”

“Did I even tell you where I worked?”

“I picked up the paper and noticed your name in the masthead.”

“Oh. Geez. Right.” Steve blushed, and he waved vaguely at his cubicle. “Home, sweet home.”

“This is cool.”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s a good looking paper. You’re a pretty talented guy, Stevie.”

Steve’s cheeks were burning all the way up to his ears. “Aw, it’s… nah.” He waved a dismissive hand and got up from his chair, but Bucky gave Steve a slight shove back into his cubicle.

“Just a second,” he muttered, before his eyes flicked down the cubicle corridor to make sure no one was looking, and then Bucky turned back to Steve, who had taken the plastic bag from Bucky’s grip.

“What? Why-” Bucky’s smile was feral as he clutched the front of Steve’s shirt, fisting it and using it to pull Steve close, and he gave Steve a steamy, teasing kiss. Steve “mmmph’ed” against his lips, but his eyes shuttered, and he reached up to cup Bucky’s nape, craving the feel of his soft, smooth waves of hair. Steve felt his pulse skip when Bucky’s fangs extended slightly, scraping the edge of his lip, and Bucky’s tongue caressed the recess of Steve’s mouth. Steve’s knees went weak; Bucky Barnes could kiss.

When Steve came up for air - he resented it a little that Bucky didn’t need to - his whole body tingled. “Wow…”

“You taste like Starbucks.”

“I practically live on it.”

“I thought you were a night owl, anyway.”

“I am. But coffee makes me more pleasant to be around.”

“You _are_ pleasant,” Bucky argued.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to _work_ with me.”

Bucky shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“Feed me.”

Bucky followed Steve out of the main newsroom, but he noticed Steve leading them toward the break room, and he said “Can we go outside, instead?”

“Where?”

“Mm. Roof?”

“We’re not… really supposed to, but… ah, why not?” Steve had no problem with it. The news chopper was already docked, and it was quiet up there. And the view was nice. They crept into the stairwell and climbed up four flights, and Steve let Bucky outside, first.

“The door won’t lock us out if we don’t prop it, will it?”

“Key badge.” Steve gestured to his where it was pinned to his shirt pocket. “It’ll be fine.” It was a cool night, but Steve was dressed in layers, and Bucky was mostly immune to it, since he always ran cold. The wind stirred their hair and clothing, and the sky was clear and full of stars. It was a waning moon, Bucky noticed.

“How you feeling tonight, Stevie?”

“Restless. But, I’ve had worse nights.”

“I bet.” Bucky sat down and opened the pizza box. “Dig in.”

“What did you bring for yourself?”

Bucky reached into the plastic bag. It was a donor bag with a drinking spout. “Little snack.”

“Ah.” Steve had a thought. “Is it okay if I kiss you before you drink that?”

Bucky beamed. “You wanna kiss me?”

Steve’s smile was shy. “C’mere, ya goof.”

They leaned in toward each other over the pizza box, and the kiss was lazy and deep. “Thanks,” Steve husked.

“‘Course, Stevie.” Steve pried a slice of pizza loose from the rest of the pie, trailing strings of melted cheese and loose toppings that he scooped up with his fingers and dropped into his mouth. Bucky opened up the stopper on his bag and chugged two-thirds of it before he felt satisfied enough to set it down.

“That hit the spot,” he murmured.

“You actually like the taste?”

“Not… really. Sometimes, some blood’s good. It’s… hard to describe. It ‘feeds the need.’ I mean, don’t get me wrong. I miss food. But blood does the trick.”

“I like my meat rare. And, y’know. Raw. But, blood?” Steve shuddered. “I mean, I end up getting some, anyway. Because I hunt. But, I’m more in it for the meat.”

“Do you like the kill?”

Steve ducked his face. He sighed, looking resigned. “It’s necessary,” he murmured. “It’s… I don’t wanna kill anybody. Or anything. I just… I don’t. I’m just trying to survive, Buck.” Steve picked up stray slices of olive from the box and nibbled them as they talked. “It’s been so long since I was turned. I don’t remember what it feels like, not to feel like an animal.”

“Stevie…”

“I miss just being a man.”

Bucky blew out a slow breath. “Yeah. Sometimes, I do, too. I miss mornings. I hate having to close up my curtains before sunrise. I miss how the sun looks over the water. I haven’t been to a public beach in decades.”

That made Steve sad. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“S’not your fault.”

“Still sucks.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“How old were you when you were turned?”

“Twenty-eight.” Bucky’s expression was nostalgic and fond. “I was an idiot.”

That intrigued Steve. “How did it happen?”

“I was out with a couple of fellow privates.”

“Privates… wait. You were military?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which one?”

“The Revolution.”

“What? You’re shitting me!”

“Nope. Fought the Red Coats.”

“Like, with Paul Revere and everything?”

“Yup.”

“Holy… crap. You’re old, Buck.”

“M’not _that_ old,” Bucky argued. “The Elders are old.”

“How many of ‘em are there?”

“Few dozen. Most of ‘em are across the pond. England, Italy, Switzerland… there isn’t much keeping ‘em here. Vamp culture is more sophisticated over there.”

“So… wow.”

“I’m robbing the cradle with you.”

Steve choked on his pizza. Bucky snickered as he reached over and whacked him on the back.

“You’re such a jerk…”

“Chew it first, Stevie. Goes down easier that way.”

Steve recovered himself and tossed the leftover crust aside before he licked stray sauce from his fingers. “So, you were a soldier.”

“Out with a few buddies. One of my men, Silas, needed to piss. We stopped in an alley. We were three sheets to the wind on a bottle of brandy. Couple of Red Coats got the jump on us. Got myself stabbed in the kidney.”

Steve paled. “Bucky…”

“I was a lost cause. Just laid there, bleeding at their feet. Silas was already gone; they were polite enough to slit his throat. I knew I was dying, but I called for help, anyway.”

“Then what?”

“Help came in the form of a woman with the face of an angel. Ororo. She had on a blue silk gown. You don’t know how hard it was to get fine silk like that, back then. Hair was so white, I thought she was wearing a wig. She pulled me into her lap, and I warned her not to. Didn’t want her to ruin her pretty dress. She just told me I was being ridiculous. Then, she told me I didn’t have much time left. I tried to tell her where my parents and sister lived, so she could let them know of my death. She wouldn’t hear it. She made me an offer. ‘I can spare you your life, but if I do, you will lose everything else.’ I asked her what she meant, and she told me. Sunlight. My family. Friends. My humanity.” Bucky toyed with the depleted blood bag. “My soul.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true.”

“You still have a soul, Bucky.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head. His hair fell forward into his face, and he didn’t bother to scrape it back.

“You’re a good man, Bucky.”

“Like to think I used to be.”

“So. She changed you.”

“Her hands were strong and soft. I was in so much pain from being stabbed that I hardly noticed when her teeth went in. I felt like I was floating. Melting.” Bucky untucked the hem of his shirt, lifting it, and Steve saw the long, jagged scar in his side. “Souvenir.”

“Next time, get the t-shirt or the refrigerator magnet.”

“Smart ass.”

“Yeah. I’ve got jokes.” Steve selected another slice of pizza. “I just don’t have a pack, anymore.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.”

“I was half hoping you wouldn’t?”

“Okay. But… you know you can, right? That you can tell me, if you ever just need to talk about it?”

“It’s hard to talk about.”

“Okay.”

“This wasn’t the life I ever wanted for myself. I mean, some lycans _love_ this. Faster. Stronger. Heal from just about anything. Great night vision, that’s a perk. Enhanced sense of smell is kind of a mixed blessing. I hate smelling my neighbor’s indoor trash from my own apartment.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah. Pretty gross. Some of my kind enjoy the change. Makes ‘em feel more free. For me, I just feel out of control. I like being in control, Bucky.”

Bucky reached over and gave Steve’s shoulder a squeeze. “I know.”

*

 

From a few blocks away, Ramsey told the agents on their comms, “We’ve got visual on both of ‘em from the rooftop. Move in.”

*

“What’s it like, when you have your first change?”

Steve huffed an embarrassed laugh. “You don’t even wanna know, pal.”

“Why? Is it that bad?”

“What was it like when you had to feed for the first time?”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Well…” His voice was sheepish. “It didn’t. Go well.”

“Right???”

“You have a shed out past city limits,” Bucky reminded him. “I mean, that’s pretty practical.”

“Yeah.”

“Who showed you to do that?”

“My pop. But, the thing is, for novices, it’s important to have a shepherd.”

“An alpha?”

“No. It’s… kind of, but it’s not really like that. We have alphas. Every pack’s got one. But, the shepherd is different. You’ve ever watched farm dogs? You know how they can turn a herd of sheep, or cows?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, some lycans shepherd the newly turned ones. It’s good to have a friend to keep you safe. The alphas pick out your shepherd, if they don’t find you first. My pop was lycan-born. I was turned when I was sixteen.”

“That’s young.”

“I was trying for so long to grow a beard. Wasn’t happening. Then I got more than I bargained for.”

“Yeah, you did, pal!”

“Your shepherd shows you the safe places to change on a full moon. And where it’s okay to hunt. And they lend you an ear. They help to keep you safe. Sometimes, they’re another pair of eyes. They tell you when something smells wrong. They teach you to trust your instincts when something about a person feels ‘off.’”

“Your dad was yours?”

“He was, until he was killed. Accident at work.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted. “How about your ma?”

“Died when I was eighteen.”

“So, you’ve had nobody. All this time.”

“All by my lonesome.”

“Stevie?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“If you want, you have me.” Bucky suddenly felt shy. “I mean, for what it’s worth. Maybe that sounds dumb, coming from a guy like -”

Steve shoved the pizza box aside, removing the only barrier between them, and he scooched over to Bucky and tugged him close, by the collar as Bucky had done earlier, and kissed him urgently. Steve didn’t even mind the faint taste of blood on his tongue, despite his earlier qualms, and Bucky’s low moan of contentment made Steve break out in goosebumps.

They broke apart. “ - me.” 

Bucky’s eyes were dark, dilated with passion, and Steve was breathing hard. “You’re good at that.”

“For what it’s worth, Bucky, that’s the best offer I’ve had in forever.”

Both of them still had questions. There was still the matter of Bucky’s Blood Debt. And Steve still had so many old, painful secrets. This was still so new. So fragile and tenuous. Steve watched Bucky and felt so much longing, wished so badly that things could be different. That he could be so much more of a man for him, instead of a beast wrapped in human skin. 

Both of them froze at the sounds of footsteps, a whole herd of them, rising up from the stairwell behind the closed security door. “What the hell?” Bucky muttered.

Steve growled, “Find cover, Buck.” His eyes flashed yellow, and his canines extended, fingernails lengthening into talons before Bucky’s horrified eyes.

“Damn it, Stevie!”

All Bucky had wanted was one date. A simple do-over that he’d promised Stevie. Just a little kick-back on the roof.

The door burst open, and men in black flak gear, helmets and masks rushed onto the roof, armed with rifles and tranqs. When Steve risked a brief glance at Bucky, his eyes glowed a stark, hungry red.

“I won’t let them hurt you, Stevie!”

“Don’t worry about me.” Steve’s voice held a determined, protective note. The men charged toward them, chambering tranq darts and bullets. Steve noticed two of them had taser sticks that crackled with a high-voltage charge. This wasn’t how Steve liked to spend his Wednesday nights. With his luck, Jameson was still going to bitch about Steve’s layout, provided that Steve even _survived_ until his next shift. Steve jerked off his outer shirt and sweater, and Bucky watched his skin ripple slightly, before its smooth surface erupted in blond fur. Bucky realized that Steve removed his clothes because a) they slowed him down, b) they were his work clothes, and c) he didn’t want to get blood on them.

Okay, then. Okay.

Quick as lightning, Steve charged into them, talons flying, dodging and ducking the darts. Bucky watched him lunge for a medium-sized operative and clamp his jaws around his throat, taking him down neatly with a growl of triumph. “When in Rome,” Bucky huffed under his breath, and he followed Steve’s lead, baring his fangs. He grunted with pain when the taser stick slammed him in the ribs, shocking him and sending burning currents through his body, but he managed to snap the man’s wrist and sent the stick flying off the roof, followed moments later by the man himself. He dispatched the second taser-wielding guard by ripping out his throat when he was mid-scream. Bucky spat out his blood; guy ate too much vitamin A. 

Bucky felt the change come over Steve. Despite the waning moon, Steve responded to the danger that they were in by letting his wolf out to play. His change was transitional, but Bucky knew he needed to stay in control, something he could do best on two feet instead of four. But Steve wasn’t speaking. He growled and huffed, tearing through the guards and knocking them down like bowling pins. Bucky felt adrenaline spike, his body’s response to the threats surrounding them. Bucky swatted away a tranq dart in mid-flight. When he wrenched the rifle from the man’s hands and jammed its stock into his face, his nose made a satisfying crunch. Blood sprayed Bucky, spattering his flesh and hair. He mourned the loss of his favorite shirt. The rifles were lightweight, telling Bucky that they were breakable. He snapped one in two, and the broken stock made the perfect shank as Bucky continued to clear the roof of their attackers.

Steve fought two operatives’ attempts to snare him in a weighted net, and Bucky snarled at the sight of it. Bucky pulled Steve clear just as they cast it through the air, barely missing him, and Bucky rolled him free from capture. Then, Steve caught a familiar scent, and Bucky felt Steve’s entire body stiffen. The hackles of fur along his neck rose into sharp points, and he snarled in guttural runs. The sounds rattled through Bucky’s nerves, burning down his spine, because he recognized that scent, too.

 _Rumlow_.

Except, he was different.

“You’ve been bad little boys,” he assured them. Those eyes that Steve and Bucky remembered as being shrewd and cruel, deep brown, with laugh lines fanning out from their corners (a testament to his cruel sense of humor) now glowed _yellow_. “It’s time for a spanking.”

Steve huffed, “Aw, _fuck_.”


	7. The Good Shepherd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s past comes to light, despite his determination to protect Bucky from it. Bucky’s coven is willing to go through hell and back to save their favored son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following it this far.

This was bad.

Steve smelled the musky tang of lycan pheromones from Rumlow on the breeze. He wore flak gear like the rest of the operatives, but he eschewed the helmet. Instead of rushing toward them like the rest of Pierce’s agents, he strode up steadily. Confidently.

Bucky bared his fangs and gestured to him. “They should have left you to rot with the rest of those assholes that Rogers took out when we bailed.”

“Nah. Pierce takes care of his own. He even gave me a little upgrade, and now, I’m feelin’ fine, boys.” His words tapered off on a growl, and then he charged Bucky with a taser stick, faster than he could blink. Bucky feinted out of its path, then ducked when he swung for him again. Bucky was quick, but Rumlow was strong before, when he was a norm. 

“I don’t know, Rumlow,” Bucky huffed as he fought Rumlow’s grip on him, feeling his talons - _talons_ \- digging into his upper arms. “You look a little bloated…!”

“Asshole. Think you’re cute, huh?”

“You should have stayed where Steve left you. Bleeding meat,” Bucky told him, and his voice broke on a yelp of pain. Rumlow’s fist slamming into his ribs felt like a Mack truck.

“BUCKY!” 

Bad move. Brock wasn’t counting on the spike in Steve’s adrenaline at watching him attack Bucky, because when Bucky vowed to repay his Blood Debt to Steve, Steve made a vow to protect Bucky, too, and to put himself in the way of anyone or anything that tried to harm so much as a hair on his gorgeous head.

Brock’s fist landed again, and again, making pain explode through Bucky, and he felt a rib crack, but Brock’s look of triumph froze, then shifted to surprise. Out of the corner of Bucky’s eye, he saw Steve leaping at Brock, talons extended, slavering and growling, and he clung to him like a limpet, tearing at his flesh with his teeth. The impact of Steve’s body hitting Brock’s knocked him off-balance, and Brock roared in pain at the sensation of Steve’s teeth sinking into his neck. Bucky grimaced, with the momentary thought of _Do I look like that when I feed?_ , but he shook it off. Brock swatted at Steve, gripping his arm and trying to fling him off. Both of them growled, roared and snarled, and Brock’s body reacted to the attack by shifting. Dark, glossy spikes of fur pushed through his flesh and gleamed in the lights from the roof, and his ears shifted, lengthening and growing sharp points, sliding toward the top of his head. His body arched and bucked, and he managed to throw Steve loose, and Steve, not one to stay down, leapt back up in a flash and went for Brock again. Brock swung and caught Steve across the jaw, fist connecting with a loud crack, and he threw Steve back like a rag doll. Steve’s growls were loud, and he was beyond words. Bucky knew the Wolf in him was taking control, despite the waning moon, because he was in danger.

And he was a fearsome sight, hair tousled and torn loose from its careful styling, his face flecked with frothy blood and spittle, and those eyes… glowing an eerie amber. He stood shirtless, back arching as he continued to shift, until he returned fully to a wolf, growling and snapping.

“C’mere, Fido,” Rumlow mocked, grinning despite the blood running down the side of his throat. “You’ve been a bad boy!” And Brock, too, shifted, into a large black wolf, tearing his way out of his flak gear, struggling free of the last of it once he was on all fours, and he howled and yipped, disoriented at the sensation of fully changing, but he cowed everyone else around him. His lupine body pulsed with rangy strength, muzzle vibrating as he growled. He lunged at Steve, and the two creatures fought for dominance. 

“STEVIE! NO!” Steve’s jaws flashed and bit, even as Brock tried to overpower him. Hackles flared and teeth snapped and tore. Lupine bodies rolled and tumbled across the roof. Brock was bigger, but Steve was agile and quick, and he inflicted more damage with his claws, swiping them over whatever parts of his rival’s flesh that he could reach. Brock bore down on Steve with his weight, clamped his maw around Steve’s muzzle and snapped it back and forth in an effort to dislocate his neck. “NO!” Bucky lunged toward them and fought Brock, seizing the beast’s shoulders to pull him off, but Brock just latched on, not wanting to release his prize.

“Shoot ‘em!” called one of the operatives.

“We might hit Rumlow!”

“Then, just aim low!” Yet, the man didn’t sound concerned about potentially hitting their leader, if Bucky wasn’t mistaken.

“They’re moving around too much!”

“Then, get the leech!”

That wouldn’t work for Bucky, either. They aimed for him, but Bucky wouldn’t let that deter him from separating Brock and Steve. Two tranq darts missed Bucky, but one found his shoulder and felt like a mosquito bite as it sank into his flesh. Bucky swore and felt his arm weaken, and spots darkened his vision, but he managed to wrest Rumlow back, curling his arm around his throat and tightening his grip. Rumlow worried his head back and forth, snapping and growling, but Bucky squeezed, gagging a little on the beast’s stench. The struggle against the muscular beast made Bucky feel like he was going under any minute, but he was making progress. He felt Steve shifting beneath Brock and working his way free.

Bucky gave Brock one more final jerk, and the operative’s dart was thrown off-target, finding a home in Brock’s chest at just that moment. At that moment, a security guard hurried through the door, hand on his sidearm and followed shortly by Jonah.

“What the hell is going on up here?! Where’s Rogers? And that the hell is THAT?”

He watched Bucky incredulously, seeing only a wild-haired young man with _red_ eyes looking like he was giving the Heimlich to an enormous dog, while the smaller dog, lighter in color, lunged at it for all it was worth. “Where’s my designer? Parker said he came up here a little while ago! HEY!” He noticed the men with guns and kept shouting epithets. “This is private property! You don’t have the credentials to be here!” Jonah’s eyes bulged when they aimed a rifle at him, but the security guard shoved him behind him.

“He’s seen too much,” one of them remarked.

“WHAT?!” Jonah squawked.

“Take him out,” the other shrugged.

“Don’t… don’t be hasty…”

Bucky groaned where he collapsed. The world was fuzzy around the edges, and Brock’s bulk weighed him down. He was glad he didn’t need to breathe. Brock slowly shifted back, and he was unconscious, with a dark protruding from his chest. He was bleeding, thick, viscous trickles of blood running down his bare flesh.

“What happened to the dog? Why’s that man naked? Where’s my DESIGNER?!”

Before he could get any answers, one of the operatives grabbed Rumlow from Bucky’s weakened, limp arms, hauling him over his shoulder, and he leapt off the edge of the building with him. A gleaming grappling hook burst from the chamber of the device in his hand, anchoring itself into the adjacent building, and he quickly rappelled down its face five stories. 

“GRAB THE LEECH!”

 _Stevie…_ Bucky’s head swam.

“You’re not taking him.” That was Steve’s voice, hoarse and full of vinegar. He staggered to his feet, bipedal and furless once again.

“ROGERS! What’s going on?” Jameson demanded.

“Mind your business, old man!” One of the operatives hit Jonah with the taser stick, and he crumpled without any further sound.

Steve felt two darts hit him, and his last thought was that Jonah would surely fire him, now, for taking too long of a lunch…

*

 

“C’mon. Talk to me. Tell Daddy all of your secrets. Annnnnddd… there. There we go.” Tony removed his safety visor and relaxed, easing back in his chair as he set the tiny cam down on his work table. “Okay. At least I have a source.”

“When are you coming to bed?”

Tony swiveled around in his chair and met Pepper’s look of amused concern. “It’s not even a school night.”

“You’re going to be cranky tomorrow.”

“Um, hello? Vampire?”

“You need better sleep hygiene, Tony. Don’t burn the candle at both ends.”

“You get to,” he teased.

“Are you still telling everyone that I burn you with candle wax?” Pepper’s eyes rolled and her sigh was long-suffering but fond. “Can we stop with that, please?”

“No one doubts me when I tell them that, Pep. It’s a good look. And I told you, I’m game.”

“Hmmmm. No.”

“Awwwwwww!”

Pepper urged his chair back from the table, stepped between his slack knees, and dipped down to kiss his lips, slow and sweet. Tony sighed in contentment, stroking back the curtain of long, strawberry blonde hair from her face. Pepper was his familiar, helping him to run his businesses during the day while he hibernated, running his errands, picking up his dry cleaning, and making sure his blood came from reputable sources. 

“What are you working on?”

“De-bugging one of the security cams from Rapture.”

Pepper frowned. “From the alley.”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“It was hacked. There was some backdoor code that I cleaned off of it that let them shut it off, with a timer. Barnes was lured outside, and whoever it was made sure we’d never find out who. Except that I have.” Tony flicked on the small button on the camera’s panel, and Tony’s laptop shot out a holographic display of a site that Pepper recognized. A small billiard bar across town.

“Harry’s Hideaway? We’ve always done business with them, though.”

“Harry’s golden,” Tony told her. “He’s the salt of the earth. But the signal came from inside his bar. I’ve got his IP address.”

“Ororo’s going to be disappointed.”

“She’ll get over it. She’s wearing her big girl boots.” Tony pulled her close. “You weren’t done trying to get me to come to bed.”

“No. That’s all right. You still have work to do.” Pepper gave him another brief kiss, and he chased her lips for more, but she gave him a tiny shove back into his seat. “I’ll be the one drooling under the covers when you get back.”

“That’s it? You’re not going to convince me of the evils of too much caffeine and not getting a long enough REM sleep cycle?”

“NnnnnOPE.” Pepper strode out of his lab, giving him a tiny bye-bye wave. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Aw.”

 

*

 

“Rise and shine, bright eyes.”

Bucky felt the familiar press of cold metal around his wrists and neck, and at his back. He was on a slab again, and he smelled the despised odors of chlorhexidine and betadine.

“That’s it. Do you remember where you are?”

That was McCoy’s voice. Frissons of fear made Bucky break out in a cold sweat. “Steve…” he slurred. “Where’s he?”

“Not far. Don’t worry about your friend. He was making himself quite the nuisance. We had to discuss his behavior and how to curb it. He’s much more agreeable, now.”

That made Bucky jerk and struggle against the restraints.

“Do you and I need to have this discussion as well, Mr. Barnes?”

“Bastard…”

“Apparently, we do.”

Before Bucky could say anything else, a bit was crammed into his mouth and hooked with small straps around his ears. Bucky struggled and thrashed, because he knew what came next. He heard the hum of Hank’s machines to his left, and felt two small paddles skimming against his temples, then pressing themselves flush against his skull.

Bucky’s screams were guttural, echoing off the lab’s steel walls.

“Welcome back, James. I’ve missed you.”

*

“Ororo? Have you seen this?” Jubilee watched the small television screen above the bar, slack-jawed. “Oh, my God, that’s Bucky’s friend!”

“Pardon?” Ororo set down her pile of invoices and joined her employee at the counter. She took the remote control and turned up the sound, and her eyes narrowed with anger as she read the ticker tape headline rolling across the bottom of the screen.

“... _local authorities report the abduction of twenty-five-year-old Steven Rogers, employee of the Daily Bugle newspaper, and twenty-six-year-old James Buchanan Barnes, employee of Rapture, a popular nightclub. Both men were last sighted at the Daily Bugle’s newsroom. Details at eleven._ ”

“Again,” Ororo breathed. Jubilee heard the rising fury in her voice. “Not _again_.”

“They took Bucky?” Jubilee looked sick. “What are we going to do? Oh, God, Ororo, what do we do, what if they hurt him again?” Her voice rose in panic, but Ororo took her lightly by the shoulders and shook her head. Jubilee’s dark eyes glimmered with tears, and her jaw quivered.

“It’s all right. Shhhhhhhh… sweetie, it’s all right. We know more, now. We haven’t been caught unaware, this time.”

“They have Bucky!”

“It’s all right. Not for long. You and I are going to make a trip across town. I’ll have Guido bring the car around.”

“Who are we going to see?”

“An old friend.”

 

Harry’s was an unrepentant dive. Comparing it to Rapture was like calling both a peacock and a seagull “birds.” It was stale and dusty, and he kept the floors covered in hay and wood shavings to sop up stray vomit and beer. The pool games were cheap, a dollar a game, and he didn’t water down his hard alcohol, but his clientele were beer drinkers for the most part, not the flavored vodka-loving younger crowd who frequented Rapture. Harry’s walls were decorated in team pennants and moose antlers, and there was a huge mantelpiece over the bar covered in Elvis statuettes, both skinny and leather-clad, and plump and sporting the white rhinestone jumpsuit. Harry’s had something to appeal to everyone who got in past his ID checker.

And that guy was no joke.

His craggy face looked a decade younger when he smiled, and the expression only reached his hazel eyes for one person. “Evenin’, ‘Ro.”

“Hullo, Logan. You’re looking well.”

“Sweet talker. Ain’t lookin’ too shabby, yerself.” He nodded to Jubilee. “Hey, there, Twelve-and-Under.”

“Hey!” She reached up to swat him, and her fangs extended with annoyance, but he waved her off.

“You know I’m just messin’ with ya, darlin’. C’mere, give me some sugar.”

Jubilee pouted at him, but she leaned in for a dutiful hug. “Jerk.”

“You love me.”

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t a jerk.”

“Love you too, kiddo.”

“You smell like cigars.”

“Fella’s gotta take a minute to enjoy the finer things in life. My Cubans are one of those things.”

“Ew.”

“So.” Ororo lightly clapped her hands. “I need to see you about an incident that happened at my club.”

Logan sighed and shrugged. “I knew this wasn’t just a social call.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then, c’mon inside. Pull up a chair and make yerself at home, darlin’.”

“Thank you for your time, Logan. I know it’s valuable.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ else but time, ‘Ro. Stops meanin’ much after a while.”

Logan had the distinction of being his pack’s alpha, as well as one of the oldest werewolves in his territory. He was nowhere near as old as Ororo, but he’d watched the turn of two centuries, and he showed no signs of slowing down any time soon. Once upon a time, Ororo and Logan entertained a relationship, clandestine, passionate and mercurial. The Elders didn’t take it well. As a werewolf, it was Logan’s instinct to wander and to never stay in one place for long, and Ororo… well. As a vampire, she craved permanence. Consistency. She found that, as well as fiery devotion, with T’Challa. That didn’t stop Logan from flirting with her whenever she deigned to cross Harry’s threshold, sweeping inside like she owned it.

Logan showed Ororo to the only chair with intact upholstery in his back office. Jubilee sat gingerly on the couch as though she was afraid something would crawl out of the cushions and bite her. Logan sat behind his desk and huffed, propping his feet up on its surface, crossing one ankle over the other. “Awright. Spill. What happened?”

“Our security was hacked, and Bucky was taken from the alley. Along with one of yours.”

“One of mine?” Logan’s heavy dark brows drew together.

“Lycan. But, not part of your pack.”

“Then, whose?”

“I don’t know. He has none, anymore, apparently.”

That made Logan scowl more deeply. “A maverick?”

“Yes.”

“There’s only a few. Y’know they don’t last that long,” he reminded her grimly.

“I know that.”

“Ya know his name, ‘Ro?”

“Yes. I met him. He’s actually… rather delightful. Steven. Rogers, I think?”

“Yup.” Jubilee cracked her gum until Ororo gave her a look to quell it.

“Rogers…” Logan stared off briefly, humming under his breath. “Rogers… why is that ringin’ a bell… wait.” He stared up at Ororo, then, straightening up in his seat and swinging his feet down to the floor. “Fuck. That one…” Logan shook his finger at them. “‘Ro. God… why, darlin’? Why didja bring this to my doorstep?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Look, I want to help ya… shit. It’s just… Rogers. He’s a good kid. I know him. I remember him, but… darlin’. Ya’ve gotta understand. This is the shit ya don’t wanna get involved in. Rogers failed to shepherd his cub.”

“He failed… to what?”

“He was a shepherd. He was assigned a novice wolf. I know his ma. She hadn’t been that experienced, herself, so she asked for a shepherd for him. Kid was about thirteen when he shifted for the first time. Lycan-born. But he was rough around the edges. Really impulsive. That’s teenagers for ya, right?”

“True enough,” Ororo agreed. Jubilee, who had been turned when she was a teenager and who still looked like a Jonas Brother concert ticket holder, stuck her tongue out at the ageing werewolf. Logan stuck his tongue out back, just because he could. “Stop that, you two.”

“She started it.”

“Did not.”

“So, yeah. Steve-O. Good guy. He was a strong hunter and he was really cautious, y’know? Had the makings of a good shepherd, and maybe one day, could even be an alpha for his own pack. So, he was shepherding Teir. That was his name. They were out hunting. But Rogers couldn’t keep him in check. He lost him.”

“Lost him?” Ororo paled. “He was a child, and he just… got away from him?”

“Details are vague. Might be better if they stay that way. But, rules are rules. I don’t make ‘em.”

“You’re an alpha,” Ororo pointed out.

“You’re an Elder,” he countered. “And ya still follow the rules, don’tcha, princess? Even for family.”

Ororo sat back and folded her hands in her mouth. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she stopped herself.

“So, you just kicked him out?” Jubilee accused.

“Uh-uh, darlin’. I didn’t. I told ya, he wasn’t in my pack. I ain’t his alpha. Creed was.”

Ororo shivered. “Goddess, he’s dreadful.”

“You ain’t kiddin’.”

“Where is he tonight?”

“Out an’ about. Why?”

“Because I need to know if he’s been slumming. Or frequenting any alleys.” Ororo reached into her Michael Kors clutch and extracted the small security cam. She placed it on the desk between them and told him, “We were hacked. Tony said the signal came from an IP address located in this bar.”

“Hnnnnnhhh.” Logan took the camera and turned it over and over between his hands. “A signal, huh?”

“Your security’s electronic.”

“Ain’t as sophisticated as yours, darlin’. And Harry relies less on cameras, and more on yers truly.” He jerked his thumb toward his chest for emphasis. “Harry’s pretty low-tech. He knows how to use the popcorn button on the microwave, and that’s about it.”

“But?”

“But. We _do_ have a laptop. Lemme boot it up. While you’re waitin’, darlin’, wanna glass of wine?”

Ororo beamed. “If you please.”

“Riesling? O positive?”

“You know me.”

“You didn’t ask me what I wanted,” Jubilee complained.

“One 7-Up, comin’ up.”

“HEY!”

Logan pulled a laptop out of the cabinet and blew off a cloud of dust from its surface before laying it on the desk, snapping it open, and turning on the power. It made a slight cranking noise as it whirred to life. “Takes it a while to warm up and get goin’. I’ll grab those drinks. Knock yerselves out.” Logan got up and headed to the bar while Jubilee began typing.

“Why are these keys sticky?”

“Don’t think about it too much…”

Jubilee wrinkled her noseand withdrew her hand as though the keys burned her.. “Wow…” she muttered. “Just… ew.” But, she typed in a few commands, and the screen popped up a new window. “Bingo. This is what Tony said we’d find. This is the source of the signal.”

“Will it tell you who logged on last?”

“Hmmmmmm… username… Creed. Victor.” Jubilee looked up from the screen, and her eyes widened. “Fuck.”


	8. Product Integrity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a village to raise a werewolf. And family can be the one you choose. (Or, it’s about who sired you.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to dedicate this chapter to my co-creator, milollita, who has been my muse and sounding board for this story and who has brought some awesome ideas to the table for the artwork. I’m blessed that this wonderful person chose my summary for the Bang. And to PRZed, who helped me to solve my writer’s block around why Steve would be shunned from his pack.
> 
>  
> 
> Additional Note: There is a brief mention of suicidal ideation in this chapter, inferred in the narrative.

Victor Creed wouldn’t win any personality contests; thankfully for him, that wasn’t a requirement to be his pack’s alpha wolf. 

Some lycans blended in with the norms and didn’t raise too many eyebrows. Creed stood out, though. His blue eyes held a feral gleam, and few people were tall enough to look into them directly. Vic was almost seven feet tall and built like a tank. A long, jagged scar broke the symmetry of his face, a souvenir from the day he was turned and flying in the face of those who assumed he was lycan-born. Vic had a strong taste for booze, cigars, wild women and control. Trouble followed him like a housefly. Vic also had a knack for making all the right connections in the wrong places.

His little “business arrangement” with Alexander Pierce was a match made in hell. Buying into the research company as a stockholder was like rubbing elbows with Steve Jobs when you were both still working in the mailroom. Victor Creed had no qualms about taking Pierce’s money in exchange for running “a few little errands,” and occasionally providing him with goods.

Fresh stock.

And it never hurt to occasionally cull the pack. It maintained order. Kept the troublemakers out and the loud mouths quiet. It was an alpha’s role to protect the weak, but… it wore on a guy.

Vic was one of the chosen few with full security clearance at Piercetech, including the containment wing and laboratories. His badge photo showed him leering and smug, unlike the typical mug shot. Whenever he visited Pierce’s office, he treated it like his own. 

Not everyone looked forward to his drop-in visits. Vic and Rumlow were thick as thieves, frequently huddled together in the break room cracking off-color jokes and gambling on football games and UFC matches, weekend sparring partners in the gym, and often hunting partners when Pierce assigned them with finding him new test subjects. 

Rumlow wasn’t expecting sympathy, then, when Victor entered the men’s locker room at the facility. His hoot of laughter echoed off of the metal surfaces in the room when he saw him, fresh and dripping from the showers and scrubbing his damp hair.

“What’s the word, Frankenstein?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Awwwwww. Heard you lost the same finger you like to stick up your ass when you’re jerking off. Bet yer glad they put it back on, eh?”

“I could grow it back, now, smart guy.”

Vic huffed, then drew in an exaggerated breath. “Yeah. Bet ya can, now. Feels good, don’t it? Bet ya’ve been wonderin’ all this time how the other half lives, haven’t ya, Petunia?” Victor walked up to him, smirking, and Brock felt his skin buzzing with the strange knowledge of Victor, an unrepentant predator, approaching him and coming so close. His hackles rose, but Victor’s large, beefy hand closed fondly around his shoulder and gave him a rough shake. “Ain’t anything else like it in the world. Havin’ this power runnin’ through yer veins. Knowin’ yer stronger than most of the folks ya pass on the street. Better’n them. Huh? Knowin’ ya can take whatever ya want, and there ain’t anyone who can stop ya.”

Brock’s smile was small and tight. “One of the perks of the job, I guess.”

“Right?” Vic’s laughter was harsh. He slapped Brock on the back, hard enough to smart. “We’re gonna have fun, now, you an’ me.”

“Always have,” Brock told him with a shrug. “Why’d they call you in?”

“Dunno. Pierce said he wanted a brief meeting. Loves yanking my chain.”

It was the closest he would come to admitting he was on one.

Brock jerked on his clothing, but not before Victor noticed his small wound from the dart. “Looks like someone nabbed ya.”

“The rest of these dumbasses need to learn to shoot straight,” Brock fumed. “But we brought McCoy’s pet leech back, and that maverick of yours. We got the job done.”

That caught Victor’s attention. “My maverick… Rogers?”

“That’s your boy.”

“What’s he still doing alive?” Brock paused and looked up from the boot laces he was trying. “Why’d McCoy keep him this long?”

“Ask him. Guess Rogers has something he wanted to take a closer look at, so we brought him back.” Brock jerked on his other boot. “Can’t get too much of a good thing, I guess.”

Victor pushed himself away from the locker he leaned on and turned his back on Brock. “Guess ya can’t.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. Not for one goddamned minute.

*

 

“Wish sometimes that I wasn’t stuck having to do all my living at night,” Jubilee complained.

Ororo shot her a regretful look. “I’m always going to be sorry I took something so precious from you.”

“You gave me another chance,” Jubilee told her. “No hard feelings. But… sometimes I just miss the basic things. Hot Topic had an awesome sale today. Shopping online’s not the same. And my favorite band had a concert at the farmer’s market.”

Ororo’s mouth made a small moue of pity. “That sounds like it was fun.”

“Hey. No worries. Y’know what’s also fun? Breaking my friends out of captivity.”

“We’re still working on that. We’re still waiting for a few of my contacts to arrive.” Ororo had another thought. “Go ahead and make some more coffee. Two pots.”

“That’ll take care of Tony,” Jubilee scoffed. Ororo raised her brow at her, and Jubilee shrugged and headed for the door. “I know, I know… I’m going.”

Despite Jubilee’s attempt at sounding lighthearted, the entire night club was on edge. Norms and vamps alike found themselves overcautious and hypervigilant following Ororo’s memo that they were on high alert. James and his friend were missing again, and the press had no information. T’Challa went to the police to file a report, but they offered him woefully little hope. 

“It’s amazing how tightly tied their hands are when they’ve covering something up,” Ororo fumed. “It’s because we’re vampires.”

“It’s because Pierce is a benefactor of the community,” T’Challa corrected her.

“It’s discrimination,” she argued flatly. T’Challa held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“This is exactly why we’re holding a family meeting.”

Rapture was spotless in anticipation of their guests. The back conference room had windows darkly tinted to block out the ultraviolet rays and to protect every blood feeder that crossed the threshold, no matter what time of day that they arrived. Unlike previous gatherings with the Elders, however, Ororo put her kitchen staff to work preparing lavish trays of grilled meats and fish. Jubilee wrinkled her nose at the strong, pungent aromas.

“It smells dead in here,” she complained as she wheeled in the two large metal urns of coffee and a sleeve of paper cups. 

“Don’t be rude.”

“Sorry. It’s just… ew.”

“We can’t always like the same things.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes, I miss food. I wasn’t big on meat back then, anyway.”

“Neither was I. But I miss ice cream.”

“They had ice cream all the way back then?” Jubilee looked impressed. 

“Indeed, they did.”

“Hm. Cool.” She went back to cleaning glasses and assembling sets of flatware and folding napkins while Ororo checked her messages on her smartphone.

“They’re almost here.”

“Emma?”

“Yes. She’s coming with Selene and Donald. Erik is about ten minutes away.”

“Is Charles coming with him?”

“Briefly. He’s been under the weather.” Charles was Ororo’s favorite of the members of the council. Charles was living - undead - proof that if you lived long enough as a vampire, you would eventually reach the end of your nearly immortal reserves and immunity. Some vampires of advanced years accepted immortality gracefully; others gave in to the urge to starve and to end their confinement on the earth. If you lived long enough, you would still endure thinning hair and skin and brittle bones and the ague of old age. Charles maintained himself for Erik’s sake. Their devotion to one another had survived centuries of war, disease, and global upset. They bickered like the old married couple that they were, and Erik confessed that Charles was the one person who always had the power to make him laugh, even when things looked dire. Erik Lensherr would walk through fire for his husband, with a love that burned as brightly as it had the day they met. 

Emma’s driver entered first. “Validate my parking?” He held out his ticket, which Ororo gladly stamped with her small punch that she kept at the bar. “It’s highway robbery just trying to park your car downtown!”

“It’s grown ridiculous everywhere, I’m afraid.” The rise in lycans and vampires among the populace made local businesses maintain longer hours, many operating well past midnight. The city council profited from this by extending parking meter and garage hours accordingly. It was a nuisance, but what could you do? Ororo heard Emma’s lilting tones coming down the corridor from the entrance, and her lips quirked in amusement at the sound of her familiar complaints.

“Traffic was ridiculous. Why does it reek of beef in here? I almost broke the heel off my Jimmy Choo when I was crossing that subway grate… ugh, I hate it here in the city. There’s my girl!” Emma held out her arms with a flourish, and Ororo walked into them, accepting a fragrant hug and air kiss from her. Selene smiled coolly at them from the doorway, in no rush to extend her own greeting. Ororo took a different tack with her and merely handed her a goblet of wine infused with O negative.

Selene made an appreciative noise. “Merlot?”

“Mmmmm. Very dry.”

“That’s the only way to enjoy it.” Selene swirled it in her glass and took a deep sniff. “Oh, that’s bold.” She nodded her approval of the first sip. “All right. Let’s talk business.”

The Elders slowly assembled in the conference room, filling the elegant leather chairs and helping themselves to cocktails and coffee. Some of them lingered close to familiar friends while others mingled. Lilith and Selene occasionally exchanged glares, while Satana and Patsy simply ignored them all. Nekra never let anyone take the wine bottle from her hand.

Donald drew Selene against him, arm anchored firmly around her waist. “So. We’re expecting lycans?” His voice held a note of distaste.

“They have a vested interest in this, since one of their own was taken. And he isn’t the first,” Ororo informed him. Donald nodded grimly, satisfied for the moment. “This is a safe space. I know I don’t have to remind any of you of that fact.”

“We’re aware, darling,” Emma told her. “None of us are strangers to slumming-”

“Emma,” Ororo said. 

“All right. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

They all turned around as one entity when Logan walked in, surprisingly silent for someone built like him. Selene wrinkled her nose, but Emma eyed him with what couldn’t be mistaken for anything but interest.

“Well, hello,” she greeted.

“Who turned up the air conditioning in here?” he teased as he greeted Ororo instead, tugging her over to him for a brief peck. 

“You’ve always run warm,” she said.

“I know, but damn, darlin’!” Despite the bodies crowded into the room, it was, indeed, chilly. 

“Logan. Behave.”

“Yeah, yeah. Got any beer?”

Wordlessly, Jubilee materialized by his elbow and handed him a bottle of Molson. Logan grinned, propped the edge of the cap against the gleaming table top, and slapped it off with a low clink. The rest of the Elders didn’t look amused. Logan downed it thirstily before he removed his Stetson from his head, combing his fingers through his wild, dark locks. “Don’t be stingy with ‘em, kiddo,” he told Jubes as she took the empty one from him.

“Aye-aye.”

Tony and Pepper arrived, and Pepper looked flustered. “Sorry we’re late. Someone was having a wardrobe crisis.”

“And I told you, hon, you look beautiful,” Tony quipped. Pepper rolled her eyes and swatted him. “Sorry. Sheesh…”

“Tell them what you know.”

“I’m about to dazzle them.” Pepper set her leather laptop carrier on the table and unzipped it, while Tony set the security camera beside it. Then he made a beeline for the coffee urn.

“This should come first.”

“You have your priorities, I have mine.”

“Tony,” Ororo warned. He looked up from the cup he filled, meeting two impatient pairs of blue eyes.

“What?”

“Pull it together,” Pepper snapped.

“O- _kay_!” He took a sip of the coffee, talking into the cup. “You never judge me, do you. _Do you._ All right. So.” He set down the cup and clapped his hands. “We’ve been compromised from the inside. Shorty here confirmed that for us.” 

“Who you callin’ short, bub?” Logan slapped open his second beer and looked unamused.

“I’ve got at least an inch on you, buddy.”

“He’s sensitive about it,” Pepper added.

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“So, we’ve been _hacked_ ,” Tony said, voice rising to change the subject. “Our camera was shut off right as Barnes was being abducted. And, and then, and then, and then, it turns out that when he disappeared this time, from the Bugle, a similar signal jammed the feeds from their security cameras, too. But, according to passerby, there were two vans waiting down on the street. The drivers were dressed as paramedics. They took two unidentified males away from the scene without speaking to the press or to law enforcement.”

“So. That’s how this is gonna go down,” Logan muttered. “Jesus…”

“I tracked the signal to one of the vans. Mobile satellite. Nice set-up. I could design better, but, y’know. So, we know how they took Barnes and his buddy.” Tony stared at Logan. “That’s why you’re here, right?”

“That caught my attention. But it ain’t just Rogers that I’ve gotta worry about.”

“You’re worried about him?”

“He ain’t a member of my pack. But yeah, I’m an alpha. Protecting my kind is what I do. Even if someone’s strayed. Rogers came from Vic’s pack. Which means Vic didn’t do his job. Even if that’s just making sure your own follow the rules. Cutting somebody off is the worst case scenario, last resort. You don’t take that shit lightly.” And Logan bristled visibly, toying with the now-empty beer bottle. “I take care of my own, and I’ve had a few of ‘em disappear. That don’t sit well with me.”

“Is that the word on the street?”

“Not so much. Pack consciousness. Whether a lycan’s a newborn or newly turned, or one of ‘em leaves this earth - or leaves the pack - we can feel it. It’s a connection. Lifelong.”

“Interesting,” Emma murmured. Selene nodded in agreement.

“So, every time we lose a soul,” Logan told them, “it hurts like hell. Ain’t nothin’ worse.”

A grim pall settled over the room. 

“Who’s hungry? Another drink?” Ororo offered. There were a few takers. Logan went to the buffet and helped himself to a couple of beef ribs. Just as he sat down, two more sets of footsteps hurried down the corridor toward them, and Logan looked up briefly from his plate.

“‘Bout time you showed up.”

“You try finding parking at this hour.” The petite redhead reached over and slugged her companion in the shoulder. “Someone wanted to double-park their new car.”

“It’s my baby,” he told her. “And someone might talk herself out of a ride home…”

“Quit being such a baby, Wilson.”

“Okay, that’s it. You’re walking.”

“Siddown,” Logan told them, flicking his eyes to the two empty seats beside him. They hurried to obey, and Wilson grabbed one of the beef ribs and a cocktail napkin on his way. Ororo’s lips twitched.

“Are they alphas?” Donald asked.

“No. But they deserve ta be here,” Logan told him. “Pack consciousness. They’re close to Rogers. Part of his old pack.”

Sam’s expression was pained at the words “old pack.” “He never should have been pushed out.”

“That’s not why we’re here,” the redhead told him.

“The hell it’s not, Natasha,” he argued. “Don’t pretend Steve being gone hasn’t torn you apart every day since he left.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was low and rough. “I miss him, too. When they took him, I felt him black out.” She gazed accusingly around the room. “All of you know what that’s like, feeling yourself be pulled under.”

The vampires shuddered in memory.

“He never deserved what happened to him,” Sam added. “Not for one minute.”

Sam Wilson wore his heart on his sleeve.

“This is what we have for footage,” Tony said as he brought up the old feed from the alley. They watched the hologram replay Bucky’s exit from the building. He followed a lithe, attractive man with sandy hair, dressed in club gear and a black leather jacket. The man gestured to Bucky, who closed the gap between them and kissed him, pressing him against the wall. The kisses looked ardent, frenzied. The footage zoomed to Bucky’s face. His eyes glowed red, and everyone in the room saw his fangs slowly extend as he kissed his way down the man’s throat.

Two pairs of feet appeared in the alley behind him, right before the feed cut off.

“We’ve learned that James isn’t the only one of our family that was abducted. Not just from my club, but from my district,” Ororo said. “I won’t stand for this. No one hurts my children.”

“I love seein’ her go all ‘Mama Bear,’” Logan murmured to Jubilee.

“Right?” she murmured back.

“So. What’s our plan?” Tony asked. “Thoughts?”

“I’ve always been pretty traditional about this kinda thing,” Logan said.

“Worst case scenario, we do things your way,” Ororo said. Logan looked disgruntled.

“C’mon, darlin’... ya can’t be subtle about this. Not this.”

“Finesse, Logan. We need to use finesse.”

“Exactly,” Pepper said. “That falls in my wheelhouse.”

Tony smiled proudly. “Yes. It. Does.”

*

 

Ororo’s way involved gratuitous shopping and pulling a few strings.

Pepper and T’Challa showed up at Piercetech’s front reception desk bright and early. T’Challa looked polished in his Tom Ford suit; Pepper was a study in sharp edges, from her snug chignon and crisply pressed dark blazer to the cruel pair of Vivienne Westwood heels on her slender feet. The receptionist smiled up at them and adjusted her phone headset.

“May I help you?”

“We’re here to see Mr. Pierce.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“It’s regarding a call we took with him earlier in the week. We just need a few moments of his time.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Her smile never faltered, but her voice was dismayed. “I know he has a tight, tight schedule this morning.”

“We’re very close with Mr. Pierce. My husband Tony - Anthony Stark to you, of course - placed five of his interns with Mr. Pierce last month in the research and development department.”

“Oh. Really.”

“Yes. They’ve always had such a strong working relationship.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do, but-”

“Tony asked me to speak with Mr. Pierce today about offering a grant. It’s rather generous.”

It was as if Pepper flipped a switch.

“You know, let me page him. He may have a moment to speak with you. We might be able to bump his next meeting.”

“Splendid.” T’Challa beamed. “Do we need to sign the guest register?”

“Of course. Here’s a pen. There you go.” She returned his smile appreciatively, letting her eyes sweep over him. “That’s a _nice_ suit.”

“You’re too kind.”

“No, it really is.”

“My wife bought it for my birthday.”

“Thank her for me.” That earned her a low chuckle. Pepper narrowed her eyes at her turned back as the receptionist updated Pierce’s calendar and punched in the phone number of his office intercom.

“Mr. Pierce? Hello, it’s Adrian. I know it’s abrupt, but I have a Miss,” and she paused for Pepper to fill in the gap.

“Potts.”

“Miss Potts and Mr… T’Challa?” He nodded. “Here to see you. It’s in regard to a research grant that Mr. Stark wants to offer you. And possibly placing some more interns with R&D.”

“It’s generous,” Pepper reminded her.

“Very generous,” she parroted. “All right. I’ll send them up.” She nodded to the security guard to escort them, handing them guest badges to clip onto their lapels. “All right. He’ll take you upstairs.”

“Thank you so much for working us in,” Pepper told her. Her smile was tidy, and T’Challa allowed her to precede him toward the main entrance into the complex. The security guard buzzed them in and took them back, and the plush carpeting gave way to institutional-looking, speckled tile and metal walls. “Oh, wow,” she murmured in awe.

“Seems airtight,” T’Challa said.

“Mr. Pierce runs a tight ship,” the guard assured them. “Sorry we don’t have time for the nickel tour, but Mr. Pierce has a tight schedule. We’re going to meet him in his office.”

“That’s fine,” Pepper said. Their footsteps resounded off the walls. “I know what it’s like to be married to a busy man. Sometimes, it’s hard to get him to come to bed.”

“Burns the midnight oil, eh?” The guard smiled knowingly.

“Oh, you don’t know the _half_ of it.”

T’Challa coughed and bit his lip against laughter. “My wife is quite the workaholic and night owl, herself.”

“Yet, we love them, anyway,” Pepper said.

They walked past a large room full of cubicles, staffed mostly by younger employees and interns. The noise level could only be described as a racket as phones rang and computer speakers pumped out music at varying decibel levels. “Interns,” the guard muttered. “Gotta whole flock of ‘em. It’s intersession at the colleges. This place has become a zoo. And, if you think that looks and sounds bad in there, you should see some of our volunteers.”

Pepper’s blood ran cold. “Volunteers?”

“Uh… Well, you don’t care about that. This is a research firm. We value diversity!” He parroted one of the company’s slogans to cover his slip. “Anyway, right this way.” They reached the door with Pierce’s name plaque engraved in gold. “Here’s the man of the hour,” he said as he knocked.

“Come on in,” he called out, and Pepper and T’Challa hovered in the doorway as Pierce waved them inside, ending a phone call as he did. He stood from his desk and met them in front of it, offering them both firm handshakes. “This is an honor.” His hand was warm and dry, and his eyes were shrewd. His cologne smelled metallic and he looked buttoned up and grandfatherly, like he planned to shoot eighteen holes as soon as he signed off for the day. A classic wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“So. This is impressive,” Pepper said.

“Make yourselves comfortable. Coffee? Tea?”

“Water?”

“Two?” T’Challa held up two fingers. Pierce smiled and filled them two cups from the cooler stand in the corner of his office. 

“There we go. Talking about grants makes me parched.” Pepper returned his smile as she sipped from hers. “So. Stark’s interested in placing some interns here, too.”

“Yes, he is.”

“More of them, apparently, than the ones I supposedly have.”

“Pardon?”

“You told my secretary that I have Stark’s interns working here in my Research and Development company.”

“From one of Tony’s subsidiaries.”

Pierce hummed, nodding. “Ah.”

“The more, the merrier. It’s wonderful to encourage young minds.”

“Strengthens the community.”

“Which is what I’m in the business of doing,” Pierce mentioned as he returned to his seat, placing his expensive desk between them. “Strengthening people. Improving their health. Helping them to become their best, brightest, strongest selves. We’ve come so far in medical research. Do you know that Piercetech has come closer than any other firm or laboratory to a cure for cancer? Or for lupus? For kidney disease?”

“Goodness.” Pepper looked impressed.

“That’s a bold claim,” T’Challa said.

“One I can stand behind, sir. Trust me.” Pierce pulled up a few windows and screens on his desktop and beckoned to them to lean in. “This is one of the participants in our trial.”

He showed them a photo of a stooped old man with yellowing skin, clearly a victim of kidney disease. “End stage renal failure. Eighty-three years old. He’s at least lived a decent life by now, we can surely assume.” Then he clicked through to a new photo. “This is the same subject, after six months of infusions with our gene therapy.” It was the same man. 

Younger. More filled out. Skin pink and healthy, no longer yellow and mottled with age spots and melanoma. His hair was darker and thicker, and his eyes had lost their rheumy appearance.

“And this is the same man after a year of therapy.”

He didn’t look a day over forty. He was smiling with his original teeth. The same man in the first picture wore dentures.

“That’s… amazing.” Pepper was stunned.

“Gene manipulation. We call it ‘genetic enhancement.’ Just putting back what nature took away.”

“Like collagen?”

“Oh, no.”

“Stem cells?” T’Challa suggested.

“That’s a third grader’s science project compared to what we did for this man. No. This was just infusion therapy, with healthy donor cells from remarkable volunteers.”

“Volunteers.” The word set Pepper’s teeth on edge.

“Yes. It’s interesting that you mentioned your husband’s subsidiaries, since they funded our last trial.”

Pepper paled.

“It’s led to so many advances, and I can’t thank him enough.”

“But… the volunteers.”

“Yes, yes… they usually come to the facility and stay for a few days. We offer them room and board in the dormitories and harvest cells. Blood, normally. Some of our braver participants allow us to take a small skin graft.” Pierce’s smile was reptilian. “It grows back.”

Even T’Challa looked sick.

“Room and board. Wow. That’s quite the program that you’re running.”

“Dormitories,” T’Challa prodded. “Could we possibly see-”

“Oops. It looks like I have another meeting. You know, we’ll have to revisit this discussion another day. I’d love it if Tony could be present, next time. I know he’s such a social butterfly. And a night owl.”

“Yes. He is. Quite.”

“Give my best to your wife, as well. Ororo, isn’t it?”

“She’s a busy woman, as well.”

“I know. I appreciate her savvy. It takes quite a woman to run a business like hers that caters to so many tastes and lifestyles. She must be hard for you to keep up with.”

“I manage.” T’Challa rose from his seat with no compunction, done with their encounter. Pepper schooled her face to look less anxious as she leaned over the desk to shake Pierce’s hand again.

“You’re young, now,” Pierce reminded her. “But take one of my cards. In case you ever decide you need a boost.”

The guard showed them out. Pepper noticed a back corridor marked with red warning insignias and a door with a reinforced glass window. “Where does that lead?” she asked the guard.

“Janitor’s closet and the breaker box,” the guard told her dismissively. “Authorized staff only.”

“Of course.”

“Sorry you won’t get that nickel tour.”

“That’s okay. We’ll come when Pierce has more time.”

“And we’ll send him a fruit basket,” T’Challa promised.

Inside Pierce's desk, a small beep chimed. “Must be Tony. Sent me a text. He gets bored without me.” The guard smiled.

“I can imagine.”

 

From inside Pierce’s office, the tiny bug flickered beneath the edge of his desk. Pierce didn’t notice it as he swept their empty water cups into the trash.


	9. I’m Not Lycan Where This Is Going

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ororo’s had enough of everyone’s shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the plot has been spinning a little out of control. I’ve been trying not to lose my original prompt, “Werewolf A rescues Vampire B,” but… it’s hard as so many different ideas occurred to me, and this little world built itself every time I had enough time to relax and wonder, “What if?” I know this story has a huge supporting cast, but it is STILL a Stucky story. And there is still a romance. Somewhere.
> 
> Okay. No spoilers. Read on.

“I want security tightened around the containment wing. No one in or out without the proper credentials. I don’t want anyone to so much sneeze in that lab without documenting it.”

Pierce reviewed the security footage from Ramsey’s desk. Rollins and Essex flanked him closely, but McCoy stood off to the side, looking bored and sipping a mug of green tea with lemon. His large hand dwarfed the mug and the steam from it fogged his reading glasses. “No more unscheduled meetings. I want full notification whenever we hear from _anyone_ in Stark’s camp.”

Adrian from the front desk looked fretful where she sat, her usual smile gone. “Mr. Pierce.. I’m _so_ sorry. They said they had a business relationship with you, and Mr. Stark-”

“Yes, I know who he is. I’m aware of his influence and of his reputation.” Pierce sighed heavily. “It’s not your fault. It was a natural assumption.”

She stood from her chair, looking relieved. “Thank you. It won’t happen a-”

Quick as a flash, Pierce reached into his open desk drawer, pulled out a Colt, and shot her between her eyebrows. Her face was stunned as she crumpled to the floor. Blood pooled on the floor beneath her, staining her impeccable pink blouse and soaking her hair.

“I know it won’t,” he assured her. Pierce went to his intercom and called his human resource director. “Call the temp agency and tell them we have a reception opening. Tell them to send someone discreet.” Pierce sighed. “No more leaks,” he told Ramsey.

“Of course, Mr. Pierce.”

“Take her body to the lab,” he told Essex. “Might as well turn a negative into a positive.”

“Waste not, want not,” Essex agreed, unperturbed.

“Erase her records,” Pierce told Ramsey. “Personnel files. Medical, dental, DMV. Have HR draft a letter to her landlord stating that she was sent on an assignment out of the country. Excellent opportunity for growth. We’ll fulfill the terms of her lease.”

“Of course, sir.” This was the part of the job he hated, but it put bread on the table. At least he wasn’t the custodian, he mused.

“How badly were we compromised?” McCoy asked smoothly.

“That remains to be seen.”

“They didn’t make it into the containment wing.” Rollins longed to return to the lab. 

“They might as well have waltzed into it and announced that they were going to redecorate it,” Pierce fumed. “Outsiders aren’t allowed that close to my subjects. I don’t care about their connections. Even the Pope isn’t allowed in that wing. And definitely not Stark.” 

Two of Pierce’s technicians arrived in protective gear with a gurney and shroud. “She was sweet. Real team player. Such a shame.” Pierce told Ramsey, “Make sure housekeeping takes extra care around my desk. There. And, there.”

“Yes, sir.”

*

 

“I want to pity you.”

McCoy’s voice sounded regretful to Bucky. (But that could have been the delirium setting in.) 

“What’s stopping you?”

“Your nature.” McCoy slowly scrolled through his report, making a few adjustments to his own transcription. “You’re a parasite. You can’t help it. You live off of others.”

Because _that_ thought didn’t send Bucky into periods of self-revulsion, but sure. _Rub it in, McCoy_.

“So, it’s time for you to give back what you have taken, Mr. Barnes. Their blood nourishes you. Now, yours will improve their lives. Isn’t that nice?”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath from where he lay on the cold metal table.

“So, what’s the point of torturing me?”

“It’s nice to have a hobby.” Hank chuckled at Bucky’s incredulous look. “Forgive my attempt at humor. That’s purely for research purposes. Vampires have a very low adrenaline response, and decreased respirations. You barely need to breathe.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Vampire endorphins might have a practical application in patients with chronic hypertension. Arrhythmias. Anxiety disorders. The possibilities are endless.”

“Sorry that doesn’t excite me much, pal.”

“No. I suppose it wouldn’t. Especially since you probably won’t be around to see it. You’re worth more to me alive, but… because of your connections, you’re dangerous. You were sired by a very powerful Elder.”

“She wasn’t too happy about our last playdate.”

“I can’t imagine that she was.”

“This isn’t going to go over well.”

“Mmmm.” McCoy polished his glasses on a small cloth.

“Why do you even bother with those?” Bucky groaned.

“Pardon?”

“You don’t even need ‘em. Seen you without ‘em, reading the fine print without any problem. All those tiny bottles and tubes. Bet you can read the bottom row of the eye chart from a hundred paces, pal. Are those even prescription?”

McCoy’s expression was bland, but Bucky heard an unmistakable, guttural growl. 

“Whoa. Did I touch a nerve?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay. Take it easy, Handsome.”

“All right. Back to your room. Let me know what I can do to make it more comfortable.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“You’re proving a delight, Mr. Barnes.” McCoy’s smile was feral. If Bucky didn’t know better, he could have sworn McCoy’s eyes glowed with an unearthly yellow light as he wheeled him back down the corridor. Something about his scent was off, but Bucky couldn’t place it.

He could still be loopy from being shocked. Who knew?

 

*

The next night, they bled him. “It takes a special person to be a donor. Your contributions are greatly appreciated, James.” Essex and McCoy labeled and dated every bag of his life essence, right in front of him. His blue-gray eyes were bloodshot and lifeless, and his veins stood out against his pale skin. And the hunger wouldn’t release him. 

He thought of Steve. Of green tea on his couch and the sound of his laugh. 

*

“Those bone specimens of yours yielded impressive data, my friend.” Essex started an IV drip in Steve’s restrained left arm. “Those veins of yours roll a bit.”

“Then maybe you should just leave ‘em alone.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“God, you’re a bastard.”

“Hm.” Essex toyed with the drip, turning it up after he injected a cocktail of sedatives. “A baseline human would feel relaxed right now. That pesky lycan metabolism of yours makes this a challenge.”

“What’s good behavior ever gotten me?”

“Shunned and cast out?” Essex smiled, then, sending a chill down Steve’s spine and making him bristle with remembered shame. “I’ve been told that you’re a lone wolf. How sad. It’s not uncommon in members of the pack who are sickly and weak, or born with a deformity.”

“Werewolves don’t work that way, Nate.” Essex’s smile dropped at the use of the nickname.

“Oh, but you do. It’s an alpha’s role to maintain the integrity of the pack. To make sure every wolf is pulling its weight. How long did you live among your pack, Steven? How long did they tolerate you being so puny and weak?”

“Stop.”

“Surely, it would have been kinder if they had gotten rid of you before you could become a burden?”

“I said, stop.” Steve’s words slurred from the drugs; Essex had increased the dosage while he was spouting off at the mouth.

“You must have come into this world small. Delicate. Your poor parents-”

“SHUT UP!” Steve’s vision was a foggy field of colors and spots.

“I heard your father died in an accident.”

Hot tears leaked from Steve’s eyes, slicking down his pale cheeks. “Don’t…”

“It’s difficult to lose a father.” Essex looked introspective, pausing as he unwrapped his surgical tray. “It’s worse to lose a son.” He discarded the blue paper drape and began to count his kelly clamps and scissors, sliding them free from the stringer. “So. This research. Our work. It will save children. Like it could have saved my son. He was born with a skeletal deformity. We laid him to rest a week after he was born. So, Steven. What we do, through you… it will save children. You will be a hero.” Essex turned on a small stereo as the scrub technicians and the anesthesiology filed into the suite. “If we can regenerate your kidney from a specimen, think of the potential. You could shorten the waiting list for transplants.”

That… that didn’t help him to know.

Steve pictured Bucky on the rooftop, with the city street lamps and glowing signs backlighting his tousled, soft waves of hair. It was the last thing he saw before he slipped into merciful oblivion.

*

Essex was chatty.

And Steve’s hearing was strong, even while he was anesthetized. His words penetrated the fog of Steve’s mind in bits and pieces. Essex talked over the shrill flutes and crashing timpani drums of a Beethoven symphony while he worked. Guy loved the sound of his own voice.

“...it’s been a while since we had such good stock to work with. We had a younger subject, do you remember? About three years ago. Lycan-born. Both of his parents were.”

“That’s rare, nowadays.”

“More baselines feel confident now, mating outside of their species. But once in a while, you’ll find some who are more traditional. But this subject… impeccable genes. It was unfortunate that we only had his cadaver. I would have loved to run some tests on his adrenaline response while he was still alive.”

“Blame Creed.” The technician sounded annoyed as he passed Essex a sponge. “I don’t know why Pierce retains him. He’s an embarrassment.”

“He has his uses.”

“Don’t we all.”

Essex chuckled. “He gets results. That subject... “

“Now, you’re just being nostalgic.”

“You remember certain patients. He had such an unusual name. Teirgaard Sinclair.”

“Doesn’t roll off the tongue.”

“Subject nine-one-five-two has a better ring to it, I’ll admit.” Essex began to hum along with the symphony. “At least it was a clean kill. He was dead before the amber alert was even three hours old.”

Steve’s inner wolf howled in mourning and outrage. His grief manifested itself in minute twitching of his fingers, invisible underneath the surgical drape.

*

Pepper hovered in the doorway of Tony’s work room and watched him where he sat hunched over his laptop, looking despondent. “How bad is it?” she asked him in lieu of “How are you doing?”

He bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. “Worse than we thought. So much worse.” He beckoned to her with an impatient wave, and she closed the gap between them. Pepper leaned her hip on the edge of his chair, and he wound his arm around her waist, sighing as he let his head sag against her chest.

“Tell me.”

“Just look at the screen.”

Tony paged through the windows and dialog boxes. “Piercetech personnel files. Looks harmless enough.” He clicked on one, opening up the file for a young woman named Angel Salvatore. “Impeccable GPA. Impressive volunteer work. Habitat for Humanity. This young lady was going places.” Tony sighed. “Apparently we recommended her for the internship that Piercetech offered.”

“‘We?’”

“Our human resources department. She was working in the mailroom and wanted to branch out.” Tony clicked to the next screen, and Pepper grimaced. Her body was still and gray, eyes closed, with the banner “Subject Expired: January 15th, 2017.” Tony paged through the lines of data, row after row of tests run on her and the specimens extracted from her body. “She was lycan.”

He showed Pepper another one. “Everett Thomas. He went missing from Rapture. Worked here a few nights a week and was taking classes online. A vampire’s gotta dream, right?” 

“Did he enter Piercetech’s internship program, too?”

“No. But according to this, they planted one of their scouts here at the club. They were friendly with our friend Everett. They kept great notes on their contact with him. They followed him around when he was working and knocked back a few drinks with him after his shifts ended for the night.” Tony stared up at Pepper disconsolately. “That’s where they knew where to find the cameras. Then they managed to jam the signal. More than once. Because I went back over the feeds, and now I know when Everett was taken.”

“All right.” Pepper exhaled a shaky breath and closed her eyes. “This… really is worse than we thought. And we have to tell Ororo.”

*

“ _Volunteers!_ ”

The wine glass crashed against the wall, leaving a cascade of blood-red trickles. “A few days stay… and we _funded_ this monstrosity?”

Tony and Pepper huddled together on the other side of Ororo’s desk. Cringing. 

“It was as good as a confession,” Pepper reminded her.

“No. It’s… horrific. This. We’ve been a party to _this_.” Ororo scrubbed her face with her palm. “Damn it.”

“I feel horrible about this.” Pepper’s voice sounded hollow.

“How could we have let this happen?”

“Don’t blame Pepper,” Tony interjected. Ororo’s eyes were frosty and hard.

“Forget blame, for the moment. That smug bastard has my child.”

“In his heavily guarded research facility,” Tony reminded her.

“James managed to make his way out, but he had help, before. And they’ve taken Steven again. We’ve lost too much time.”

“No. We haven’t lost time. We’ve used it to figure out how to keep this from happening again. And we’re going to get Bucky back. All in one piece.”

“And Steve,” Pepper corrected him.

“It’s not enough to get them back,” T’Challa said quietly. As usual, he had the most level head in the room. “We need to shut them down. Their research. Their business. Their entire operation.”

“Hm. No one will notice a Fortune 500 company that’s created hundreds of medical procedures that have improved countless lives suddenly disappearing off the map.”

“Tony. Hush.”

“Pep-”

“I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“As much as I hate to admit it… it lacks finesse, but I think we will have to take a different tack.” They turned and watched Ororo expectantly as she said, “We’re going to have to do this Logan’s way.”

Pepper crossed herself. “God have mercy on our souls,” she murmured.

*

 

“I don’t know whether to be frightened or aroused right now.” T’Challa watched his wife zip up her black stealth suit and snap up the flak vest. The clothing hugged her body, and she had her hair skinned back in a cruel bun, which she then covered with a dark ball cap. “I don’t feel good about this, sweetheart.”

“I’ll be home before dawn.”

“Sooner,” he warned. 

“T’Challa. Are you giving me a curfew? That’s cute!” Her smile made her cheeks dimple, but he gave her a stern look.

“I’m serious.”

“I know. It’s still cute.” Ororo captured his chin and gave him a brief kiss. “I’m not going in there alone.”

“No. Here.” He gave her the small earwig and mic, fastening it on for her. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, and so will Pepper. Tony gave us the schematic of the building.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without that brain of his.”

“If his security camera hadn’t been compromised, you wouldn’t be sneaking in there in the middle of the night like a common burglar.”

She looked hurt. “I’ll have you know that I’m an _exceptional_ burglar, T’Challa. Bite your tongue.” 

He touched the tip of her nose. “You can bite it for me when you come home.”

T’Challa insisted on driving her to Harry’s himself. His hand rested on her knee during the whole drive, helping him to ground himself with that contact. Logan was already waiting in the bar. He’d closed it for the night and told Ororo that whoever she was taking with her better get their asses in there to grab their gear. Jubilee looked uncharacteristically grim, and she also wore all black. Her flak jacket was heavy and dwarfed her slight frame. She cracked her gum and sent off one last text on her phone.

“My stomach’s tied in knots,” she admitted.

“You don’t have to go,” Ororo suggested gently.

“I want to. I want to get Bucky back.” Her voice held a desperate note. “He’s the only person who gets me, y’know?”

“Don’t get weepy, kid,” Logan chided as he cracked open a beer.

“Really? You’re drinking that _now?_ ”

“Ain’t a big deal.”

“Werewolf metabolism,” Ororo reminded her.

“Comes in handy,” Natasha called out from the doorway. Like Ororo, she wisely pulled her hair back into a ponytail and tucked it under a cap. Sam flanked her, looking tired but resolute. There were bags under his eyes and his cheeks looked sunken. “You hanging in there?” Nat asked him. She patted his arm, but he impatiently brushed it off.

“No. You know damn well why.”

“I know,” she agreed. “Don’t take it out on me. Save it for Pierce.”

“What’s wrong?” Ororo asked Logan.

“Pack consciousness,” Logan reminded her, tapping his temple. “There’s been some bad things happenin’ with Steve-O. Just get the occasional flicker, every now and again. He’s in pain.”

Ororo paled.

“Then, we’ve waited long enough.”

*

“The smell of this thing is making me nauseous.”

“Quit yer yappin’, Jubes. Just get us in.”

Jubilee crept up to the security booth at the front gate, holding the large, leather carrying case. The guard looked up from the book he was reading and leaned down to the mic. He scowled at the young girl in front of him, wearing a yellow trenchcoat that seemed to swallow her, sunglasses propped on top of her head, and chewing on a mouthful of gum. What was wrong with kids these days?

“Yes?” His voice sounded cranky even through the squawk box.

“I’ve got a delivery for Mr. Creed.”

He didn’t look surprised. “He didn’t say he ordered anything for delivery.”

“Look, pal, I’m just doing my job. Extra large, New York style pie with everything.” Jubilee hid her distaste and cracked her gum. “You gonna let me in so I can deliver it, or not?”

He looked skeptical.

“My boss is gonna be pissed if I don’t deliver this to him on time. You know our motto: Thirty minutes, or it’s free. I’ve four minutes to spare before I get canned. Cut a girl a break.” She rocked on her heels, patting the pizza case.

“Geez… all right. Let me… I’ll page him to come get it.”

“Can’t you just let me in?”

“Look, kid-”

“I’m not a kid!” she snapped, but then she recovered quickly and flashed him an innocent smile. “C’mon! It’ll only take a minute.”

He sighed again. They weren’t paying him enough for this. “Okay. I’ll buzz you in. Straight inside, and straight out. I’ll let the guard inside know you’re on your way.”

“‘Preciate it, buddy.” Jubilee walked through the gate once he let her in, and she continued up the paved walkway, steeling herself.

“So far, so good,” she murmured into her tiny mic. She looked like she was talking into her jacket.

“Keep it movin’, kid.” Logan’s voice sounded annoyed on her comm.

“Everybody’s a critic…”

She was waved inside the front door by the guard. Logan watched her through his binoculars and saw her grinning and chatting with him to distract him.

“... oh, my God, do you even know how much fat is in a slice of this thing? Bye-bye, arteries. Seriously…”

Logan chuckled. “Kid’s a natural.”

Then he tensed as he saw a figure emerge from the shadows in the front lobby. Long legs. Built like a tree trunk. Blond hair in an unkempt ponytail. 

“You’re growling,” Ororo murmured.

“Sorry, darlin’. Can’t help it.” He glanced at her and huffed. Her eyes glowed red with a combination of a feral’s need to assert dominance and plain ol’ pisstivity at seeing a man she detested just on principle. “Guess you can’t, either.”

“He needs to go.”

“Why did we break up, again?”

“Your itchy feet. Focus, Logan.”

“You’re no fun anymore.” Logan tsked and shrugged and turned up the volume on his comm.

“Here ya go. Twenty-nine fifty, pal.”

“Hnnn… lemme find my wallet, sweet cheeks.” He heard the sneer in Victor’s voice. “What the hell have ya got on, kid? Doin’ an audition for ‘Singin’ in the Rain?’”

“It’s chilly out.”

“Sure it is, kid.”

Logan heard her chewing her gum, sounding louder and more exaggerated than before. “Easy, kiddo,” he muttered under his breath. Logan watched Vic open the box and reach in to snitch a bit of pepperoni before he even reached for his wallet. Jubilee gave him a bored look and tapped her foot. He grinned at her and then imitated her gum chewing, showing her his food.

“Ew!”

“What? M’hungry.”

“Just pay up.”

“Ain’t it over thirty minutes?”

“No, wise guy! Twenty-eight minutes.”

“Pay her,” the guard grumbled, making impatient motions with his hand. Vic shoved his hand into his pocket, withdrew his battered wallet, peeled off a twenty and a ten and went to hand it to her, but dropped it onto the floor before she could take it from him. 

“Oopsie.”

“Cute.” She bent down, grabbed it, and tucked it into her pocket. Then she turned to the guard. “Before I go, I gotta pee. Where’s the little girl’s room?”

“It’s not for public use. These aren’t business hours, miss.”

“C’monnnnnnnn… I gotta go.” Jubilee shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Please? I’ve got a tiny bladder…” She gave him her best squirming face, and he sighed.

“Okay. This way. Follow me. Please hurry.”

“Bless you,” she exclaimed. She stuck her tongue out at Vic on her way past, making him laugh and almost choke on a bite of pizza.

“Brat,” he chuckled. Then, he stared after her, as though something occurred to him.

Logan knew that look. He was checking her scent. “Damn it, hurry up, kid,” he said into her comm. She didn’t reply to him, but he heard the guard telling her it was the door on the left. Logan heard the sounds of the door swinging open and locking shut. The guard admonished her again to hurry up. “Show time, kiddo,” Logan said.

“Yeah, yeah,” she whispered back at him. “Cool your jets. Hm. It’s the self-flushing kind…” Logan rolled his eyes and sighed. He heard the low flush, then heard her leave the stall and turn on the taps as background sound. “Up we go…”

The guard rocked on his heels and checked his watch in the corridor, listening to the sounds of the water. What was taking her so long?

The ceiling panel was loose in the otherwise pristine bathroom. Jubilee laughed to herself picturing Logan or anyone bigger than herself trying to climb up into the air vent. She replaced the tile after herself and scuttled off, following Tony’s directions in her ear.

“You in?”

“I’m in.” It was hard to crawl and talk at the same time.

“Nice. Okay. Go left. Then head down about twenty yards. That’ll put you in an office.”

“I thought we wanted to get to the containment wing.”

“We do. But you’re not going in there by your lonesome, chickadee. Office first.”

“Okay, okay.”

Jubilee went the direction that he told her, and she told him, “Does it have linoleum flooring? The kind that looks like wood?”

“According to my bug, it sure does.”

“Seems cheap, for a guy with a multimillion dollar company.”

“It’s not about the money. Linoleum is practical. Makes it easier to mop up the blood.”

He had a point.

Jubilee opened the panel and shimmied her way out, dangling all the way down before she dropped to the floor; she tensed, hoping no one heard her. But the office was quiet. 

“Okay. Go to the window and open it. Attagirl.”

“It’s sticky… okay, here we go.”

“Okay. Here comes Mommy and Daddy, little girl. Don’t run off again.”

“Shut up,” Jubilee said aloud when she heard Logan and Ororo snickering into her comm. 

*

 

Up on the roof, Natasha and Sam surveyed the grounds and facility with another pair of binoculars.

“Aren’t they supposed to signal us?” Sam wondered.

“That was the plan.”

“This waiting drives me nuts.”

“Relax, Wilson. Fretting gives a guy indigestion. You know how you get.”

Sam exhaled roughly through his nose. “This isn’t the time to get cute.”

“I’m always cute.” She proved this to him by flashing her dimpled, preening smile when he glanced at her for a moment.

“You’re cuter when you’re ripping out jugulars.”

She looked touched. “You say the sweetest things.”

They heard footsteps below and watched a slim, young blond man in a technician’s uniform coming out of the back exit and pulling out a smartphone. “I’m about to become adorable,” she warned Sam under her breath. Before he could reply, she took a running leap off the roof. Sam opened his mouth and held out his hand, then facepalmed. “Fine,” he muttered before leaping off after her.

By the time he reached the ground, she had the man cowering wheezing against the wall in the shadows, her now-taloned hand wrapped around his throat. Nat’s eyes glowed an eerie yellow-green and she cocked her head at him. “Hey, handsome,” she purred. “You’re looking lonely out here.” He gasped as she tightened her grip. “Aw, you shy?”

“Might be,” Sam said. “Being out here all alone.” The man’s blue eyes bulged and dilated. His knees began to buckle and he slapped ineffectually at her hand. He drew close, letting his own eyes shift, and Sam took advantage of Natasha’s posturing to reach into the man’s pocket. He pulled out his wallet and opened it, reading his driver’s license. “Hm. Douglas Ramsey. Class A license. And you’re a Christmas baby! Good for you!”

“GUuuuurrgggggkkkkk… ggggkkkkk…”

“Hey, man, I’m sorry. I really am, but we’re gonna need you to bring us inside.”

“The main database and security room,” Nat said. 

The man shook his head, then gurgled again. He was holding onto Nat’s wrist with all of his might, but she didn’t relax so much as a finger. “We don’t have all night,” she said.

Ramsey’s veins stood out in his temple and he turned a sickly purple.

“Your boss might get a little antsy if he finds out we’re here visiting after hours,” Natasha said. 

“Kill me… Pierce…”

“Oh, we’ll kill you, too, make no mistake,” Nat said easily. She allowed her face to slip a little further into its transitional phase. Russet fur slicked over her flesh and her canines flashed. “Unless you take us where we need to go and give us the goods. Are you gonna be a good little boy?”

“Sh… sssshhhh… sure. Pl… please…”

Nat released his throat, but Sam grabbed him and whipped him around, plowing him face-first against the wall, snaring his arms behind him. “Just to make sure you don’t get any bright ideas, like yelling out, we've got a talented IT guy. I’ve got your name and birthdate. Even if you survive tonight, I can have him erase you. Bank records, medical records, you name it. And I know where you live, now.”

Ramsey was breathing hard, and he closed his eyes in defeat. “You’ll never leave here alive,” he grunted. “You know what we do to your kind here?”

“Sure do. We came here to party, anyway.” Nat’s face was calm, but her voice was laced with disgust.

“‘What we do to your kind,’” Sam mimicked. “Man, shut the hell up.”

“March,” Nat told him as she reached around and snatched his security badge from his lapel and used it to let them inside. They crept down the darkened hallway, and Nat urged Sam to let go of him as they both shifted back to baseline. Sam schooled his expression into calm lines, while Nat looped her arm through Doug’s. 

“Here we go. We’re walking, we’re walking…”

They turned the corner, and Nat felt Doug’s steps falter briefly. She gave him a rough nudge just to bring him back on track. The security door was green and flanked by several warning signs. _Authorized Personnel Only_. “All right. Let’s get this done.”

The room was bland enough, but Sam bristled at the sight of the security monitors along the wall and the glowing computer terminals on the wide, circular desk. He looked up at the screens; each one showed captions of the wing’s location. The cameras panned every five seconds to a different angle. The image resolution was surprisingly sharp. 

“Log us on.”

“Like hell I will,” Ramsey hissed. “You lycan freaks won’t even make it out of here alive, no matter what you do to me!”

“We’re going to make it out of here alive, buddy,” Natasha promised him. “And we’re taking our family with us.”

“Family,” Ramsey spat, but Sam jacked him up by the arm and shifted slowly before his eyes.

“Look,” Sam growled. “Ain’t nobody got time for that. You’ve got someone that belongs to us, and we’re taking him back. And we’re gonna shut down this shit show on the way out.”

“Like a boss,” Natasha added.

Ramsey was much more cooperative after she threatened to bite him and infect him with the lycan virus, lock him up in a cell, and let him wait until his “coworkers” found him and opened him up like a Christmas present. His fingers flew over the keys, and he showed them the footage from the surgery suite. Nat schooled her face to remain stoic, but Sam glared, his eyes sparking, and he let out a shaky breath. There was Steve, naked, thin, and inert, being moved onto a gurney from the operating table. There was a long, red seam of sutures marring his abdomen.

“Right,” he said. “That’s enough of that. Do your thing, Romanoff.”

Natasha plugged in the flash drive and initialized the program, watching the progress bar slowly move across the screen.

*

The guard grew impatient and finally knocked on the bathroom door. He jiggled the knob. “Miss? Are you okay?” Then, “Did you fall in?” He reached into his pocket and found his large ring of keys and crunched the smallest one into the lock. He glanced at the sink and the empty stall, whose door was hanging wide open. “Shit,” he hissed, “shitshitshitshitshit…” He slapped off the sink’s tap and stared up at the loose ceiling panel. He pulled his cell phone out of his shirt pocket and snapped, “I have an intruder in the building. Came in through the front lobby, and into the air vents! All sections on high alert! Small female, early twenties, with dark hair, wearing a yellow coat!”

 

Naturally, Jubilee ditched the coat in the air vent once Ororo sent her to rendezvous with Natasha and Sam. Ororo and Logan stalked the halls at their leisure, and both of them smirked when the building’s alarms went off. “Guess they know we’re here, darlin’.”

“They’re making us welcome.”

“And they call _my_ place a dive. Smells like a tomb.” Despite the odors of antiseptic, it truly did to his enhanced senses. The two of them sound a security elevator and headed for it, but two guards accosted them from the stairwell. 

“YOU! STOP!” They brandished their guns, and Logan chuckled.

“It’s been too long…”

“Behave,” Ororo warned him.

“Not on yer life.” Then, “RAAAAAAWRRRRRRGGGG!” He charged them at full speed, shifting in an instant, looking larger in his transitional form, covered in dark, slick fur. Unlike his lupine peers, however, Logan was the proud owner of longer, stronger claws. As an alpha wolf, his bone was denser, and that was reflected in the talons that burst from his fingers, gleaming and razor-sharp. Logan ran at them and took them down before they could even take the safety off their pistols. Blood sprayed across the walls and they collapsed, throats still gurgling.

“That was excessive,” Ororo scolded.

“ _Rrrrrrrrrrrgggggg…_ ”

“I’m not judging you.”

The alarms continued to sound. They overloaded Logan’s senses, but they pressed on toward the containment wing. The sign read _Dormitories_. Ororo tore it down with a swipe of her own talons. “Rubbish,” she cursed.

“Temper,” Logan growled.

“Find me my son, then lecture me.”

More guards. They didn’t come as close, and shots rang out, but Logan evaded their attempts to keep him in their sights, and Ororo just kept walking toward them. Her flak jacket caught the impact, and she grunted as they hit the dense armor, but she kept moving toward them, smiling with cool malice. “Not impressed…”

And… she was _hungry_.

She left two more bodies in her wake, bleeding from the jugulars. She spat slightly and wiped her mouth. “Ecccchh… salty,” she complained.

“Are ya surprised?”

*

“Contain him. He’s still under sedation,” Hank told Essex. “Get him back into the cell!”

“I need to d/c his IV!”

Hank impatient went to Steve’s limp form and ripped out the IV tubing and needle taped to his arm. “There! GO!”

Essex hurried and threw a rough blanket over Steve and took the brake off the gurney before he wheeled him quickly from the lab. Hank discarded his gloves and protective gown and tossed the instrument drape over the soiled tray. He closed down the charting computer’s terminal, not caring that he hadn’t finished his transcript. 

The alarms… unrelenting. Drowning out his thoughts. Rattling through his nerve endings. Hank went to the one on the wall and slapped off the switch. There. _There_. That helped. Hank’s heart and temples pounded as he racked his brain for what to do next.

The containment cells. If anyone broke into the complex, they would no doubt go there first.

*

Pierce’s technicians and another guard tried to stop Essex, but he wheeled past them, nearly running them down. “You’re taking him back to his cell?”

“What does it look like?” His voice was harried and wild. “Lock everything down! Don’t let anyone out! If you see a vampire or a lycan not in a cell, shoot it!”

“Not again,” the guard murmured, clutching the taser stick holstered at his side.

Essex made his way to the cell and wheeled the gurney inside once he triggered the locks. “We’ll get caught up later,” he promised Steve’s dozing face. But the moment he went to lift him off the gurney, still swathed in the blanket, Steve’s hand flew up and snapped around Essex’s wrist, and his eyes glared up at him, watery and bloodshot.

“Bastard,” he grated out. 

“Let GO!”

They struggled, and Steve was knocked off the gurney, landing badly on his shoulder. He yelped in outrage as the pain exploded through his nerves. His body was already metabolizing the painkillers, and the wound blazed where they’d cut him, but he tried to focus past it. If he let them lock him up again, he might never see the light of day again.

 

*

Hank strode down the corridor to the facility’s med room, lab coat flapping behind him. He punched in the access code on the keypad and heard the door buzz as it unlocked. Hank walked through the narrow aisles between the shelves and found a small refrigerator marked with a red biohazard symbol.

“Here’s the rainy day you were saving this for, McCoy,” he told himself as he opened the door and reached for the small, plastic tray of labeled test tubes. Hank removed one of the tubes and brought it to the small work table. He dispensed a sharp from the box by the door and took a tourniquet out of the drawer. He loaded the syringe from the liquid in the tube and laid it aside, and then he removed his coat. Hank unbuttoned his sleeve cuff and rolled it all the way up over his shoulder. He tied the tourniquet on with a loud snap, wincing at how it smarted. He tapped the needle, examined it in the light, and then plunged it into his arm, slowly pushing the serum into his veins. It burned, but he injected all of it and exhaled a slow breath. “There. There we go.”

He went to set down the needle, but he dropped it from shaking fingers as sweat broke out over his flesh. “Oh… oh, God-” His voice cut off on a gasp, and his body arched as every muscle in his body stiffened. His bones felt as though they were being turned inside-out, broken in half, and rebuilt in a different shape. Hank’s vision blurred, and his vocal cords warped. Everything burned. Everything was too sharp, too close…

Hank stumbled against the table, knocking the tray onto the floor. He panicked at the sight of the broken tubes and the liquid seeping into the tract carpet. The room around him swam and spun, and he finally collapsed, missing his grab for the edge of the table as he went down. Chills wracked him and he began to see colors. 

He didn’t recognize the sound of his own breathing. Panting. He was _panting_.

His hand flopped limply onto the floor. The last thing he saw was the dark, bluish-gray fur slowly bursting through its flesh and his fingernails lengthening into broad, sharp talons.

It was like riding a bicycle, he mused. Some things, you never forgot.


	10. Midnight Snacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An escape. Old betrayals, revealed. Two men get a second chance at the things they’ve lost.
> 
> And Steve finally comes up with a way to keep Bucky warm.
> 
> (No, there's no smut involved. Get your minds out of the gutter.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this and indulging my crazy, occasionally sick mind.
> 
> Warnings for more bloodshed.

Victor hated it when people interrupted his meals.

He chucked the unfinished slice of pizza back into the box with a ragged, low growl. “Really?” The alarms weren’t doing him any favors. This had better be good. He rose abruptly from his rolling chair, kicking it aside on his way out of the break room. By the time he got off the elevator on the second floor, he already smelled blood.

His brain catalogued the sources of the scent. All baselines. Well. That was interesting.

Rollins rushed toward him, still dressed in his lab coveralls, goggles hanging from around his neck. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were wild. “We can’t afford another break like the last time,” he told him.

“It won’t be like the last time. Don’t get yer panties in a twist.” Victor made him follow him, and Rollins struggled to keep up with his impossibly long strides. Victor stepped around the bodies lying in the hall, eyes staring up lifelessly. Most of them had slashed throats, nice and neat. 

Victor recognized the handiwork, and he picked up the runt’s scent. He paused his roll for a few seconds. Then, he noticed a corpse with punctures, just below the jaw. _Well, well._ And there it was. Sandalwood oil, and something sweet and musky. Feminine. Unique to one woman. He was looking forward to seeing her again.

Shame he was gonna have to kill her.

*

“There. There he is. Cell ninety-three.” Natasha zoomed in closer with the camera on the north side of the hall. There was Bucky, huddled on the bunk. He was shivering noticeably and so pale and depleted that his veins stood out. His face was sunken and even from her vantage point, she could see how glassy his eyes looked. “Monsters,” she cursed. “You bled him dry.”

“It’s for the good of humanity,” Ramsey huffed. “Why shouldn’t we take his blood if it will help to heal people?”

“We _are_ people,” Sam told him coldly. “We count as ‘humanity,’ dummy.”

“Hardly. You’re nothing but freaks.”

“Do you think it was by choice?” Sam grabbed him and leaned in close, and Ramsey saw that unsettling glow pulse from his eyes again. Sam’s hot breath misted over his face. “Most of us just wanna be left alone, to live our lives. That doesn’t mean we have to sacrifice ourselves, or let you take what isn’t yours.”

“You take _lives_! And those leeches steal blood all the time!”

“To _survive!_ ”

“Boys! _Settle down!_ ” Natasha wasn’t in the mood to let them go at it. “Less arguing, more saving Bucky.” Then, heard a hollow, metallic banging against the door, and Natasha peered through the security camera that showed them the hallway. “It’s Logan’s fan club,” she said.

“Kid’s a smart aleck.”

“She gets things done. Be nice.” Sam rolled his eyes, but he went to let her in, ushering her inside quickly and relocking the door. She looked anxious.

“I think we woke up everybody in the house, guys.”

“We found Bucky.”

“Just so you know, there’s a lot of dead guards?”

“I don’t see this as a problem,” Natasha mused.

“What are you? Another filthy lycan?” Doug wanted to know.

Jubilee tsked. “Rude…”

“She’s not a lycan,” Natasha said. “But now, you’re her dinner. Baby, help yourself.”

“What? You can’t… don’t! GET AWAY FROM ME!” Jubilee grinned with delight. The last thing Doug saw before her teeth punctured his sank into his throat was her smug look and that blasted, ruby light invading her dark eyes. She grabbed him with deceiving strength and bent him back over the console, and she sucked noisily at his neck, draining him of the warm blood. Excess dribbled down past his collar and stained the front of his uniform. His body jerked in her embrace, and his head thrashed for a minute.

“He could’ve been useful,” Sam sighed.

“He was,” Natasha said. “Baby, c’mon… that’s enough.”

Jubilee whipped her head around and glared at Natasha, unhappy with the order. She hissed and bared her bloodstained fangs. “NOW,” Natasha demanded. Jubilee dropped Doug’s body, and he slid off the edge of the console to the floor, pushing out his final death rattle.

“Fine,” Jubilee muttered as she stalked out into the corridor past Sam and Nat.

“Someone’s got the hangries.”

“I don’t even want to hear that from you, Wilson. You’re just as bad.” She disconnected the flash drive before they left. Behind her the screens began to flicker and buzz with static as each camera’s feeds slowly cut off.

 

*

 

“Stop struggling, Steven,” Essex grunted. “You’ll make it worse for yourself. You need to recover-”

“Don’t act concerned. Just, _don’t._ ”

“You’re Pierce’s property, and I’m charged with protecting it. You’re not just a subject; you’re an asset.”

“Yeah, that’s not working for me, pal.”

Essex shrugged as he grabbed Steve by the shoulders and shoved him up against the wall, the impact enough to make his teeth rattle. Steve’s entire system was trying to reboot itself, and he began to sweat. His body was rejecting the sedatives, but he was still woozy and uncoordinated. His hands didn’t want to obey his orders to pull Essex’s hands away, and his grip around Essex’s wrists was limp.

“Behave yourself. Good boy,” Essex mocked.

“Go to hell.”

“Maybe we can make you behave.” Essex backhanded Steve with a loud crack, flying in the face of his claim that he was going to “protect” Steve. Essex reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small foil pill packet. He ripped open the tab with his teeth and fumbled with them, extracting the two pills. “Take your medicine.” He fought with Steve again and tried to cram them into his unwilling mouth. Steve growled and cried out as the intrusion of the bitter tablets on his tongue, and he shook his head, eyes watery and wild.

The wolf inside him wasn’t having it. Steve’s grip on Essex’s wrist tightened, but Essex slammed him back again, making his head ring.

“Swallow…”

“MMMMMMmm! MMnnnnnnnn! RRrggggg…”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut against the sight of Essex’s smug face, and his muscles tensed. He tried to spit out the pills, which were beginning to dissolve. Essex’s grip on his face was hard, blocking his efforts. He squeezed his fingers, digging them into Steve’s cheeks. Steve’s eyes were wild and enraged over the edge of his hand.

The bastard was _enjoying_ this.

“You’re too valuable to me to leave you alone. You’re feisty. I like that. We’re going to have so much more fun, you and I.” Essex chuckled. “We were so lucky when you and the vampire returned. He wasn’t as wild as you.”

Steve blinked. His chest heaved with his attempt to suck in a decent breath.

“I’m interested to see the effects of draining him completely dry. But he’s just so fascinating. Just like you.”

Steve had had enough.

“RrrrraaAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!”

Essex howled when Steve sank his teeth into his palm. The pills made his vision blur, but they didn’t suppress his rage. He saw Essex through red haze, and when Essex yanked his hand free, he spattered his coat with drips of blood. He looked… impressed. Steve spat out the mushy pills, and he was panting again, chest heaving. Blond fur slowly erupted from his skin, and his features warped, nose and mouth shifting into a short muzzle. His ears twitched and began to slide toward the top of his head. _Amber_. Those eyes saw through Essex, telling the doctor that he just became _prey_.

“Goodness. Faster recovery than I imagined y-”

Steve charged him backwards toward the cell’s bars. He slammed him back against them so hard that they rang. Steve breathed hard, growling as he slammed him back again, making the man’s teeth clack and his vision cloud.

“You aren’t gonna touch him, you bastard… not _again_.” Essex’s hands snapped around Steve’s wrists this time, but he lost his footing and couldn’t resist the repeated slam of his body against the unyielding metal. Essex felt himself panic at the rangy strength of his skinny arms, and he began to see spots. Steve banged him back again, curling his fingers around his jugular.

“He’s not yours, d’ya hear me?” Steve squeezed, watching Essex’s mouth gape and his eyes bulge. “You’re never gonna hurt him again. He never did anything to you.” Essex made choking sounds, and his knees slowly buckled. Steve’s talons were digging into his flesh. “Here’s the thing: Bucky’s _good_. I know, he’s a vampire. Maybe in your world, that doesn’t go hand in hand with being good, but you don’t know the guy. Not like you care. If anyone’s a leech, it’s _you._ ”

He didn’t notice Essex reaching into his pocket until he felt the sharp flare of pain in his ribs where he stabbed Steve with a small scalpel. Steve roared with fresh pain as Essex dug it into his flesh more deeply, twisting the blade.

*

 

Steve’s howls broke Bucky out of his stupor. He looked up at the sound, groggily trying to right himself. “Stevie…” He still felt clammy and nauseous, but he fought the urge to collapse back against the cot. “ _Stevie_!” he cried out. 

He managed to crawl across the floor. His muscles ached as the cold from the metal floor beneath him seeped into his body. He needed to get to Steve…

*

 

Pierce answered the phone in the dark. His voice was a hoarse bark of annoyance. “This had better be important.”

“Sir. They’ve come for Barnes,” Rollins told him, sounding harried.

“They? Who?”

“The Elder vampire. The woman, and the lycan she came with! There might be more-”

“Might be?!” Pierce threw back the blankets and rolled to a sitting position. “Why aren’t you _certain_?”

“Sir… I have to go!”

The phone line clicked and went dead. Pierce set down the phone on the nightstand and rubbed his eyes, letting his palm scrub down his face. Well. 

This wasn’t ideal.

 

*

Inside their containment cells, vampires and werewolves clamored and banged on doors and bars to be let out. Jubilee read the warning signs on the walls and the numbers of each cell. “Subject number five-five-two-eight… two-nine… three-oh. No names?”

“Because they aren’t people to Pierce,” Natasha reminded her.

“Oh, that’s bullshit!”

“I agree with her,” Sam told Nat as he tripped the locks on the left side of the corridor, pulling down a switch. “Go, GO!” he called out to the captives. “Go down that side! Don’t let anyone stop you and take the back stairwell!” The captives staggered and ran down the hall as Sam told them. They kept moving, but then Sam snarled at a familiar scent.

Natasha caught it, too. “Shit…”

“He’s really here,” Sam remarked. 

“You didn’t want to believe it,” Nat said, “well, neither did I.”

Sam looked sick. 

“Don’t overthink it. Not now, Wilson. Focus.”

“Fine. That’s… that’s fine.” Their footsteps never slowed, even when they saw Victor coming toward them. He smirked at the sight of them, but they saw malice in his eyes. His scent held the distinctive tang of the alpha in the pack, and it was so hard to look him in the eye without submitting to him.

Victor counted on that. “Ya don’t wanna be here. Neither of ya wanna cross me. Get the hell out.” They heard that tone of voice and immediately chafed, but Natasha jutted her chin and planted her hand on her hip.

“Not gonna happen.”

“What the hell d’ya mean, ‘not gonna happen?’ Yer steppin’ t’me, little girl?”

“You heard me.”

“Yer forgettin’ yer place.” He was still stalking toward them, and his eyes began to flow. Sam watched his hackles visibly rise and the muscles in his body tense.

“I know my place in my pack. And I know what you did to two of our own. That’s not how you lead the ones you’re born to protect, Creed.”

Victor huffed, then snickered under his breath. “Ah. That’s cute.”

_THWACCKKK!_

His enormous hand connected with her jaw, and her body flew backward before Sam’s horrified eyes. “NAT!” Victor snarled and growled at Sam, hunkering toward him, and he watched his muzzle appear, making his words guttural and rough when he spoke.

“It’s my place to lead the pack, not yers! I say who stays! I say who _lives_. And I say who goes! I do it for the good of the pack! I don’t hafta make room for weaklings like Rogers! Kid was a liability from the start. Couldn’t even protect the kid, and he was his shepherd.”

“Shut up!” Sam was done. Victor’s claim that Steve failed in his duty as Teir’s shepherd made his guts twist. 

“I’m with Wilson. Quit grandstandin’, ya prick.” Sam turned at the sound of Logan’s voice, which turned out to be a mistake. 

“Runt,” Victor growled. “You. Get outta the way.” He kicked Sam in the sternum and sent him sprawling back. Pain exploded through him and the breath rushed from Sam’s lungs. “The grownups need ta talk.”

“Yeah. ‘M thinkin’ we do, bub.”

Yet, there were no more words. In a twinkling, both men shifted and rushed at each other, and they grappled in a fury of claws and teeth. Sam felt Natasha hovering over him, already recovered from Victor’s strike while he was still seeing stars.

“That really stung,” he grumbled.

“Yeah… he can handle this. Let’s find Rogers.”

 

*

Ororo beat them to it. She heard Bucky’s voice once she noticed the only cell in the containment wing that was still closed and occupied, and she heard Bucky crying out weakly. “James!” She hurried toward him, hands splaying across the security window. Her throat closed up at the sight of him as he stared back her incredulously.

“You came… for me!”

“Of course I did, sweetheart!” She tested the pane of glass; it was sturdy and reinforced. That never stopped her before. “And I’m getting you out. Get back!”

“Shit…!” Bucky twisted around and scooched backwards as quickly as he could as he watched Ororo draw her fists back. The glass shattered into hundreds of glittering splinters and shards. A few bits strafed Bucky’s aching flesh, but he avoided the brunt of it. Ororo loomed in the now-hollow frame, beckoning to him, but he was still weak. 

“It’s all right. I’ll come to you.” She climbed inside, ignoring the sharp edges that bit into her hands. She joined his side, kneeling down and reaching for Bucky, and she gathered him against her body. She felt cool and solid, and he smelled blood, but precious little of it was hers. 

“Lycan… smell like one.”

“I rode in the car with an old friend.” Bucky stared.

“Wait… where’s Stevie?” His eyes widened. “We have to get him out! I heard him!”

“James-”

“I owe him. My Debt. Help me get to him, curse you!” Bucky struggled out of her grip, but he was still seeing spots and his coordination had fled him. 

“Stop it,” Ororo scolded. Her lips thinned and she gripped his arms. “I’m going to get him. All right? I’m going to bring you out of this cell, and I’m going to get Steven.”

“You have to… hurry. Please.”

“I will.”

“They’ve… hurt him-”

“They’ve hurt you, too, you ridiculous child,” she muttered, but she lifted him like he was a sleepy child and climbed out of the cell with him tucked against her body. At that moment, they heard the distinct sound of stertorous breaths and panting, and low, familiar growls.

“STEVIE!” He tried to struggle free again, but she wouldn’t let him. 

“BE STILL! JAMES!”

“ _Stevie…_ ”

Ororo hurried as fast as she could with Bucky to the cell three doors down. Lamplight from outside spill in from the cell’s interior window, and Bucky and Ororo regretted having such strong visibility once they stared inside. Essex… Bucky took in the sight of him hovering over Steve where he was crouched on the floor. The doctor held a dripping scalpel in his hand, and his gaze was manic as he turned at the sound of Ororo’s footsteps. “Come for the party?” Ororo could tell that his gaze was out of focus, and he swayed a little on his feet. She saw a sheen of dampness across the back of his scalp where Steve had split it open for him. “Pick a cell. Any cell. We’ve plenty of room.”

“You have someone who belongs to me.”

Essex looked baffled for a moment. “What… someone… you mean _this_??” He waved vaguely at Steve with the scalpel. Steve was bleeding from his mouth and ribs, and his hand clutched at the wound there in an attempt to block the flow of blood. “He doesn’t belong to _anyone._ Haven’t you heard? He has no pack. He’s an outcast. I’m doing him a favor by putting him to good use.” He paused. “For science. For humanity.”

“What do you know,” Ororo spat, “about humanity, you filthy little man?” Essex was tall, easily staring Ororo in the eye, and he was broad across the chest and shoulder. “His life - his purpose - isn’t yours to decide.”

“Put me down,” Bucky rasped.

“James-”

“Stevie! STEVIE!”

“Go to him, then, dear.” She let go of his legs, and he wobbled a bit, but he rushed to Steve’s side as Ororo advanced on Essex. The doctor brandished the scalpel again at Bucky, then changed targets and pointed it at Ororo as she advanced on him. Bucky bared his fangs at Essex as he reached for Steve. His touch was gentle, and he turned him in his arms to get a better look at the wound. It was jagged and horrible, not far from the surgical one sewn up with a neat row of sutures. 

“Stevie. You’re gonna be okay, all right?” Bucky’s voice a low croon that broke on the last couple of words. Steve stared woozily up at him.

“Aw, Buck. Ya look like hell.”

“Look who’s talkin’.”

“None of you are walking out of here alive,” Essex boasted.

“A-B negative. That’s rare.”

“What?”

“Your type. It’s been forever since I tasted any. Hope you don’t mind.”

Essex gaped at her, then lunged at her with the scalpel. Ororo scoffed and caught his wrist, and she jerked him close, making him fight against her bruising grip. “I know I’ll regret this tomorrow,” Ororo muttered.

“WHAT?!”

She squeezed his wrist until he dropped the scalpel, caught his jaw, and twisted it savagely back. Ororo shoved him against the wall using all of her weight, bowed her head and plunged her fangs into the pulsing, delicate vein. 

Steve winced, grimacing. “Oh. Okay.” Essex made gurgling sounds and fought against her, but she slammed his arms up beside his head as she drank. His eyes slowly grew glassy, and his struggles slowed and weakened. His voice dropped to low, soft whines and gasps. 

“Y-you. W-won’t. L…”

Ororo retracted from him, releasing his arms, and he collapsed.

Steve’s attention shifted to Bucky again when he felt his fingers stroking his hair. His face. He felt Bucky’s cold, cold hand covering his wound firmly, as though he could hold it together and heal it by will alone. 

“This wasn’t how I planned t’see ya again, B-b-bucky.” Steve’s teeth chattered. He was going into shock.

“Stay with me, Stevie! C’mon, stay with me…”

“M’not leavin,’ pal. Promise.” Steve’s fingers trembled as they touched Bucky’s jaw. “S’okay.”

“S’not okay. You’re bleeding.”

“M’already healin’. Cut ain’t that deep.”

“The hell it’s not.”

“S’okay, baby. Don’t. No, don’t. Don’t look like that, baby.”

The endearment made Bucky’s eyes burn, and the tears that merely glimmered in his eyes moments ago spilled down his cheeks.

“Stevie. Please.”

“Bucky. Calm the fuck down.”

Ororo huffed, and Steve caught her look of amused surprise. “Can you help a guy out, here? Tell him I’m fine?” His voice was a hoarse croak.

“Are you, dear?”

“Right as rain.” He grunted as he tried to sit up, fighting off Bucky’s attempts to keep him close. “You’re gonna hafta let me up, pal.”

“Steve!”

Steve sighed, and then he reached up, sliding his hand through the hair at Bucky’s nape, and he pulled him down into a soft, insistent kiss. Bucky hummed in surprise, and then returned his sigh. “M’fine, babe. Promise.”

He was anything but fine, but Bucky helped him sit up.

“You’re gonna hafta do me a favor, Bucky.”

“What?”

“Feed.”

“W-what?”

“Right here.” Steve pointed to his wound, which was still dribbling trickles of blood, but more slowly than before. “Might as well not waste it.”

“We’re running out of time,” Ororo reminded him kindly.

“I know that. His chances are better of getting out if we do this. I ain’t leavin’ here without him. Didn’t before. Don’t plan to, now.”

“ _Steve_.”

“Ain’t a good time to be picky, Buck.” Bucky shook his head, and his eyes… oh, his eyes. So full of regret and refusal, and what Steve recognized as shame. “Ya hear me? You’re spent. They drained you. You won’t last if you don’t feed right  now.”

“Not from you!”

“Yeah, from me!” Steve’s voice rose and grew harsh. He staggered to his feet, and he squeezed Bucky’s shoulder. “You have to. C’mon. Eat.”

“Bucky. We have to hurry,” Ororo warned.

“I can’t do this!”

“Yes, you can,” she argued. “It’s a gift. Freely given, and with love.”

Those words made Bucky’s entire world tilt on its axis.

“Take it,” Steve said. “Please.” He clutched at Bucky’s nape, toying with the soft curls of hair that tangled around his fingers. Kneeling, Bucky was eye-level with Steve’s wound when he stood. “Do it.”

Bucky sobbed into his flesh as he embraced him around his skinny waist and then lapped at the wound. His fangs lengthened from the nearness of nourishment and the pull of Steve’s vulnerable, bare, warm skin. His fangs nicked Steve, and Bucky sobbed again, eyes imploring Steve as he stared up at him and leaking tears.  “It’s okay. It’s okay, Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes shuttered, he inhaled a shaky breath, and bit deeply into Steve’s side, latching onto the source of food. He lapped at the rich, warm flow, shivering and trembling with his need for it. Hunger warred with shame, and his hands clutched at Steve. He held him so tight while Steve stroked his hair. “There ya go. Good boy, Buck. Little more. C’mon. Don’t be shy.”

“You can’t keep this up,” Ororo warned.

“He’s fine. I can manage.” Steve stared at her. “Are you always this bossy?”

Bucky hummed an affirmative “mmm-hmmph” into his side, which turned into a whimper. It was a struggle. Such a struggle. Steve’s blood was _perfect_ , coursing into Bucky’s veins like liquid sunlight. It filled him with strength and warmth, rushing into all of his hollow, cold spaces. His heartbeat and pulse woke up, quickening and growing in volume. Bucky’s adrenaline levels and endorphins spiked and his dizziness left him. It took an act of sacrifice to break away and pull off of the wound and cut himself off, because if given the choice, and Bucky now hated this revelation about himself, he could feed from Steven Grant Rogers _all damn day_ if he’d let him.

Bucky wobbled a bit as he stood, but he pushed off Steve’s offer of help and wiped off his mouth. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

 

Jubilee found them moments later, looking harried. “Guys, how are we gonna get back out?”

“The way we came in.”

“I came in through the vents, remember? Can we _not?_ ”

As they rushed down the hallway, Steve stumbled and paused, clutching at himself. His face twisted in pain and he cried out.

“What’s wrong?” Ororo demanded.

“Feels… like I’m bein’ torn apart…”

It dawned on Ororo why. “Logan!”

“Not just Logan.”

Cold fear filled Ororo’s eyes.

*

 

Logan snarled and roared as he was flung back against the wall again. His flak jacket lay on the floor and his shirt was in bloody tatters, barely hanging from his frame. Victor’s guttural roars echoed off the metal walls and bars throughout the corridor and he snapped his muzzle back down over Logan’s brow. Blood dripped into his eye, but he ignored it. He refused to submit. He wouldn’t falter. Victor was unfit to lead the pack and he was a shame to his own kind. Victor’s clothing was shredded, too, and his sandy fur was streaked with blood. His mouth was foaming with bloody spittle, and he howled in pain as Logan dug his talons into his throat. They continued to rush at each other. Logan’s shoulder was dislocated, and two of Victor’s ribs were trying to knit themselves back together.

“ _STOP_.”

They continued to struggle, until the voice barked at them again.

“ _ **STOP THAT, NOW**_.”

Both men whined and growled, whuffling and snarling, but they slowly disengaged and backed away from each other in the presence of the newcomer. 

“You. Will. Heel.”

McCoy bristled in all of his towering, fearsome glory. His sharp canines slurred his words, and he bared his teeth for emphasis in case they didn’t grasp his purpose.


	11. Don’t Let the Sun Come Up on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freedom, won. Debts, repaid. Sins, forgiven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go.

Victor stared at McCoy, yellow eyes disbelieving as he shifted back to his baseline form, making the bleeding tears and gouges in his skin appear stark and hideous. “You,” he rasped. “Always knew, there had t’be somethin’ off about you.”

“Hn,” McCoy agreed, shrugging. “You were never that sharp, Victor. But, I’ll give you _some_ credit. I have the marvels of modern medicine to thank for your confusion.” Victor frowned, which only made McCoy chuckle, an unnerving sound coming from that beastly visage. “We’ve learned so much about lycan physiology and pathology. How to extract certain properties from their - from _our_ \- blood.” He rubbed his neck, rotating it a little as he found his words. “How to _enhance_ them. Or, to suppress them.”

“Suppress?” Logan tsked. He was breathing hard, and he advanced on McCoy, but the dark-furred lycan growled to keep him in check.

“Pierce needed my mind. My talents. He didn’t need to know about my hobbies.”

“Didn’t need a werewolf on the payroll, is that it?” Logan looked disgusted. “Ya make me sick, bub.”

“They fear us,” McCoy told him, “yet, they need us.”

“You’ve _sold us out!_ ”

“ **You don’t know ANYTHING!** ”

The rage flew in the face of McCoy’s usual, stoic demeanor. His breathing was heavy and uneven, nostrils flaring, chest heaving, and he flexed and unflexed his fingers as he took in the cacophony of sounds and too-intense scents. So much _blood_. His head reeled from it. He felt hot, flesh buzzing and overstimulated. His own fur chafed him, every follicle standing up with his agitation.

“Always knew ya were a sick fuck,” Creed murmured. “And ya judge _me_.”

“Think yer any better?” Logan shook his head.

“I ain’t like _him!_ ”

“The hell ya _aren’t_ ” Logan shoved him, and the two of them lit into each other again. “You sacrificed one of yer own, and he was just a kid!”

McCoy pushed himself between them with relative ease. He tore Logan away from Victor and flung him back against the wall like a rag doll. Victor, he brought to heel, gripping him by the throat. Victor fought against him, struggling not to look him in the eye, but by the force of his will, McCoy stared him down, and Victor slowly _knelt_. Submitted to him. He trembled, breathing harshly.

“I was like you, once. An alpha.” McCoy laughed under his breath. “Foolish. Too proud.”

“So. You came here.”

Ororo’s voice was stony and cool. Bucky and Steve flanked her, while Jubilee looked on in shock.

“All this happened while we were gone?” she wondered to herself. The corridor was a shambles, cell doors hanging open, broken glass everywhere. The alarms never stopped blaring.

“This is where you belong. On the ground, at my feet,” McCoy told Victor. 

“Like hell. You ain’t bigger than me!”

“It was never about size. You’ve learned nothing. You assume so much. The young, the sick and the weak amongst your pack have their uses, and you have yours. Or you did, before.”

Victor Creed was big. Strong. A gym rat and weekend arm wrestler, too heavy for any weight class to become a professional fighter. No ordinary man could take him down.

Yet Hank McCoy, medical researcher and surgeon, crushed his windpipe like an empty milk carton. Logan struggled to recover from his blow. Ororo was already by his side.

“Bastard… broke my good rib.”

“Your good one?”

“Creed busted the rest of ‘em… shit, that _stings_.” Logan gripped his side, coddling it as he tried to rise. 

“Shhhh, shhhhh… that’s it. Stay down,” McCoy crooned to Victor as he pushed him down, watching the light in his eyes die. They remained open, their amber glow gone. “You’re done, Victor.”

Steve was stricken and defiant. “No! You… he was _mine_! He was supposed to answer to _me_!”

“Stevie!”

“Buck, he killed Teir! I was shepherding him! He _trusted_ me!”

“I don’t understand, Stevie, but it doesn’t matter now!”

“Bucky!” Steve’s eyes glimmered with rage and grief. He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand…”

“Stevie-”

“You think you’re better?” Steve cried, bristling and staring Hank McCoy down. “You’re so much better? You’re worth more than the pack?”

“I had to look after my own interests, Rogers.”

“Bet ya did. Huh? No one else would, huh?”

Hank no longer looked so smug. “Shut up.”

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a maverick. You don’t have a pack anymore, do you?”

Hank’s eyes flitted around the corridor. Several pairs stared back. Judging him. Measuring him. 

“So that was how you did it. Suppressed yourself. Your real self. And you kissed up to Pierce.”

Steve was bare, skinny and bruised, and McCoy dwarfed him by a foot, but Steve shoved at Hank’s chest, thumping his own with his fist. “I had to get by on my own. I lost my whole family. Everyone thought I couldn’t pull my own weight or be a protector. I thought I couldn’t either, because of Creed. But I won’t stand by and let _you_ treat me like a lending bank for body parts. I ain’t weak. And I can protect my own.” McCoy looked amused.

Bucky’s heart clenched.

“You tell ‘im, shorty.” Logan sounded gruff but proud. 

“And we’ll protect you, Rogers.”

Natasha and Sam loomed up out of the shadows. Sam held something in his hand, clutching it against his chest. Worry flashed over Natasha’s features for a moment, but she fixed her smirk back in place. “Did a little reading while we were shutting down the security protocols.” She nodded to Hank. “You’ve been a bad boy.”

“No. I deal with bad boys and girls,” McCoy said. “Like I did with him.” Because that was Victor’s body laid out on the floor like cold meat. He gave Steve a rough shove backward. “None of you will see daylight.”

“Some of us don’t care to,” Ororo reminded him.

“Yoo-hoo? Vampire,” Jubilee added.

“Jubes…” Bucky looked pained.

“What? We are.”

“We’re getting out.” Steve shifted, and even in his transitional form, he appeared gaunt and rough. 

“Heel,” Hank challenged. “I said, _HEEL_.”

Steve growled and bared his teeth, and Hank shoved him back, but Steve gnashed his teeth at him, jumping up at him. Hank swatted him back, sending him flying back, but Natasha and Sam huddled by him, pulling him back up.

“You can’t do this alone!”

“The hell I can’t!”

“Rogers. Focus.”

“What?” Then, “OW!”

He stared at her, looking betrayed and confused at the needle she’d jabbed into his shoulder. The fluid burned its way into his veins. “You need a boost.”

“What was that?” Hank’s eyes widened. “What did you give him?”

“A shot of wolf juice,” Natasha said. “He needed a pick-me-up.”

“You _didn’t_!”

“What was...in...that…”

“Stevie! What’d you _do_ to him?” Bucky grabbed Natasha’s hand and forced the hypodermic needle out of it. It was empty. “What the hell did you do?”

“You’re welcome.”

“Feels… weird… oh, God!” Steve reeled and staggered, still staring Hank down, and low growls forced themselves out of his throat. He shifted, fur thickening and growing longer, more dense. Bucky heard the audible snap of his bones as they arced and reconfigured themselves, and Steve’s eyes glowed yellow. He yelped and cried out, tripping over himself in an effort to catch his balance, but he lost his center of gravity. Steve fell down on all fours as he continued to change. His muscles knotted and bulged, burning with new strength and power.

Until an enormous blonde wolf crouched, growling and snarling in their midst. Fierce. Strong. Sensing danger from the challenger before him. He smelled wrong. Death hung all over him, offending his senses.

“Heel.”

Steve growled, tail lashing the air as he laid back his ears. His muzzle vibrated with his growls as he stalked Hank, slowly circling him. “I said, HEEL.”

“Rogers has never done what we told him,” Sam told him.

“Hell, no,” Natasha agreed. 

“Whaddya expect? Ya threw him out,” Logan said, pointing at them both while he let Ororo support him.

“Be nice,” she soothed.

“It’s true?! They did!” Logan gently pushed her away, removing her helping hands. “Rogers... “

Steve - or, the predator standing in his place - barked at Logan and resumed his challenge. Saliva dribbled from his maw, and his growls rolled up and down the scale in pitch, sounding so guttural that they set everyone on edge.

“I’m an alpha! You won’t defy me,” Hank told him. “You-”

Steve pounced.

Hank was bowled backwards, and he reached up to fight off the lupine jaws gaping over his face, wrapping his fingers around them to block their bite. Steve worried his head back and forth, fighting to snap his teeth around any part of Hank’s face that he could reach. They rolled and scuffled from one side of the corridor to the other, growls swelling in volume. Hank’s face looked panicked now, fear blooming in his eyes. His face bore the strain of fighting off the rangy wolf sprawled over him. Steve bit and clawed at him, lunging for Hank’s throat. Hank batted and pushed at his claws and muzzle. Steve kept dipping his head to snap at him, and they became a blur of limbs and backs as they rolled and fought. Hank gripped the scruff of Steve’s neck and attempted to pull him off, but Steve’s eyes were dilated with fury, and Hank felt the power in his muscles, despite the horrible conditions of his confinement and his recent surgery. Hank smelled the odd tang of the cocktail of drugs and lycan pheromones that Natasha injected into his veins. The drug was one Hank had developed as a possible steroid substitute, but it wasn’t tested yet. He’d developed that particular batch from his own blood, in addition to the drug that he injected every day to suppress his lycan genes and impulses. His body no longer succumbed to the lunar shifts or to nightfall. Hank McCoy was as free as he wanted to be from his infliction. He fully owned his humanity, thanks to science.

But thanks to his own folly, when he failed to lock his own invention away after using it on himself, he was at this young maverick’s mercy. 

He was like Steven Rogers, once.

Weak, once. Born lycan. Lost his father. Shepherded by an alpha and groomed to take that role for himself, but fate proved cruel. Cast out.

So, he showed them. Hank McCoy walked away from everything that he had and renounced who he was. Reinvented himself, in his own image. Powerful. Respected. A leader in his field. A reaper of genes and lost children. Procurer of blood. Organ thief. Unapologetic traitor to his kind.

A bully.

And Steve Rogers _couldn’t stand bullies_.

Hank felt his own shift singing in his veins, heard that voice in his mind, beckoning to him. _It’s been too long. Do you feel it?_ How couldn’t he feel it? The wolf had lain dormant inside of him for so many long months, restrained and silent. Broken. And the wolf’s siren call claimed him a bit at a time, with every snap of Steve’s jaws and tearing clamp of his teeth into Hank’s flesh.

It felt good to return to what came naturally. The hunt. The struggle. Dominance. Hank’s muzzle extended, lips peeling back over his snags of teeth. He laid his ears back and closed his teeth over Steve ear. Hank’s hot breath burned, intensifying the agony of those tearing teeth, and Steve yelped, but he wouldn’t let Hank go. They clashed and rolled, coming up on hind legs, leaving each other’s fur stippled with fresh blood.

“Stop them!” Jubilee cried.

“No.” Ororo’s tone was firm. “He needs this.” She meant Steve; that went without saying. But she knew this about Logan, and about her friend’s pack. They needed to sort these things out for themselves.

Natasha held Sam back, even though his eyes were cloudy with tears. “Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t do that to him, Wilson. This is his fight.”

“Get the hell out of here,” Logan called out to them. 

“NO!” Sam railed back. “Not without him!”

“He ain’t the only one I gotta protect, bub!”

“You don’t need to protect me!”

“Yer alpha’s dead,” Logan corrected him. “And I’m tellin’ the two of ya to get the hell outta here. Take the kid and Gorgeous George here with you.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Natasha shouted back.

“GO.”

She felt the pull of his command in her gut, and her entire body clenched with the will to obey. “Damn it…” She grabbed Jubilee and Bucky by the arm and hustled them away, even though Bucky fought her.

“NO!”

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “You’re more use to us right now than to Steve! Come ON!” Sam was hot on their heels as they headed for the stairwell. “We’re making a quick stop, first. Second floor.”

“We can’t leave Steve!” Bucky fought her, but he was still weak. Babbling.

She struck him soundly across the cheek. “FOCUS! Stop that! Down the stairs! NOW!”

He followed her meekly, eyes wet. Jubilee knew not to argue, but she was confused.

“Why aren’t we just going out the front door?”

“We don’t want any loose ends.” They headed back toward the surgical unit, which made Bucky balk, but Natasha grabbed his face between her hands. “Hey. HEY. Listen. I know this place gives you a bad vibe, but we’re not finished.” They went into the specimen room, where they found autoclaves and refrigerators among the rows of countertops. “We need to leave Pierce a love letter.”

“What do you mean?”

“See that? That’s the incinerator.” She nodded to a large metal door in the wall. “Every test tube, every jar, everything you can find that looks like it came out of someone who wasn’t able to fight back is going in there.”

Bucky paled.

“Just start grabbing and go,” Sam said. He looked sick about it, too, but it was the only way they could honor all of those who were lost: By ensuring that Pierce never profited from their sacrifice again.

Months - years - of research went up in flames. The odors were nauseating and overwhelming. On their way out, Bucky grabbed an O2 tank and smashed it into a nearby computer screen. “That works, too,” Nat murmured under her breath. “Thank you.”

They headed back toward the stairwell, and they ran into a harried looking man in technician’s coveralls. “YOU,” Bucky exclaimed. Rollins. He had the nerve to hold up his hands in a nonthreatening gesture.

“Take it easy!”

“Easy?!”

Rollins scrambled back in the direction that he came, but Bucky wasn’t having it. He darted after him, stumbling up the stairs, and he tackled him around the waist, sending him sprawling. Bucky’s weight crushed the air from his lungs, and when he tried to right himself, Bucky smashed his face back down against the stair. He held it down cruelly and spat his words with malice.

“You helped them. You helped that fucker hurt my Stevie. And you did this to me. Starved me. Drained me.”

“Leech,” Rollins rasped. “You’re undead! That’s no way to live!”

“It’s MY LIFE, you bastard! I’ll live it however I can! God, what is it with you assholes?”

“Bucky, we don’t have time for this,” Natasha complained.

“It’s not morning yet,” he argued. “That gives me _plenty of time_. I don’t have to be home yet.”

“That’s not the point- oh. Oh, God, Bucky…” She winced as Bucky yanked Rollins head back by his hair and bit deeply into his exposed throat. The bite was a statement of defiance and of Bucky’s autonomy.

Twisting Rollins’ head around until his neck snapped… well, that was adding insult to injury. Bucky got up and left Rollins staring off to the side, toward the exit door.

“Oh, God.” Jubilee gagged a little behind her hand.

“That was excessive,” Sam agreed. But then, he told him, “Hey. You do you.”

They burst outside, and Bucky nearly wept at the scent of the fresh, cold air.

“Feel better?” Natasha asked him.

“A little.” He turned to her and reached for her, squeezing her shoulder. “I have to go back. I have to get Steve.”

“Logan told me to take you out!”

“He’s not the boss of you!”

“Yes, he is! He’s an alpha! That’s what he _does!_ ”

“Kinda is,” Jubilee chimed in.

“He’s not the boss of _me_.”

“You’re not in shape for a fight like that. Steve won’t want you to get in his way.”

That hurt to hear.

“He’s already saved me once. _Twice_. I can’t leave him behind. He didn’t leave me.”

“Don’t be stupid, Barnes!”

“He’s up there, with my sire… oh, God! Ororo!”

And Bucky ignored their efforts to make him see reason. He bolted back inside and ran back up the stairwell.

*

 

“End this,” Ororo pleaded. Logan refused.

“No, darlin’. I won’t do that. It’s his fight.”

She knew in her heart that he was right. But she feared for Steve, watching him as he faced down the enormous, blue-black wolf. Steve’s eyes were glassy now from blood loss, he’d already lost so much that night. Hank’s fur was shaggy and matted in places with slick, viscous blood. Both of them roared and tore at each other. What Steve lacked in bulk he had instead in longevity. He’d lived all his adult life as a wolf, and most of it without a pack. He’d learned to survive against incredible, crushing odds. Hank underestimated him.

He yelped in surprise when the younger wolf reared up on his hind legs and tore out his throat. Hank’s cries sounded almost human, then cut off sharply. His body shuddered, limbs and muscles jerking as he shifted back to his transitional form. His face stared disbelieving at Steve, taloned hand flying up to staunch his gushing wound. The sounds he made were choked and gurgling. 

“Y-you…” He staggered back until he hit the wall, and then he slid down it silently. He slumped, and he stared; his hand fell limply to the floor.

Steve whuffled and shook himself before emitting a piercing howl of triumph. The sound was full-throated and keening, and when Bucky heard it, the hairs rose up on his nape. “STEVE!”

Steve turned on him, startled by the sound of Bucky’s feet rushing toward him, and Logan shouted “Kid! DON’T! Leave him alone! This ain’t a good time-!”

Steve growled at Bucky, eyes dilated again and peeling back black-rimmed lips from his teeth. He was growling, agitated and exhausted.

 

“Stevie, it’s me! It’s Bucky! Okay? It’s your Bucky! You know me! I know you’re in there, Steve.” 

“Heel,” Logan called out to Steve. The young wolf reared back and turned on Logan this time, snapping at him. “HEEL, I said!”

Steve shook himself, and then he whined pitifully, swiping at his head with his paw. 

“Heel, damn it. You heard me.”

And like that, the golden light faded from Steve’s eyes. He shook himself again and slowly shifted, staggering as he returned to standing on two legs. He stumbled against the wall, and Bucky hurried forward to catch him. “Oh, God, Steve! Stevie!”

Flesh. Yielding. Chilly. Familiar.

Bucky.

He was holding him so tight, sobbing into the side of his neck. His hands were shaking as she roamed over him, inspecting his wounds and stroking his hair as he crooned to him that he would be all right. That they could go home.

“I feel unclean,” Ororo said softly, rubbing her nape.

“Yeah. Me, too.” Logan let Bucky and Steve have their moment. Steve’s skinny arms were wrapped around Bucky and he was shaking, sobbing. Clinging to him like he never wanted to let go, and like he couldn’t believe he was real.

“Let’s go home,” she pronounced.

*

Outside, police car beacons lit up the darkness with red and blue prisms of light and officers rolled yellow “Do Not Cross” tape across every exit. A fleet of ambulances arrived and began to take away Pierce’s “volunteers.” They were typed and matched on the scene and transfused on the way to County. Their wristbands included designations of “NOC Ward” so that they would be placed in wards with darker curtains during their admissions and be discharged at night.

Bucky’s wounds were already half-healed; he stood there in a hospital gown, the one from the facility, and one of the hospital’s rough blankets. He refused to leave Steve’s side where he lay on a stretcher. Bucky gripped Steve’s hand and stroked his hair. “I was so scared for you, Stevie.”

“Yeah? Well, me too.” He looked stricken. “That… that wasn’t me. I’m not like that, Bucky, I-”

“Baby, I know. Things got a little tense in there. Stevie? I don’t want you to think I’m judging you by what happened back there. You’re here. You’re still here, and we’re both on the other side of the door. You’re alive.” Tears spilled over his lids, burning Bucky’s cheeks. 

“Don’t get all mushy on me, Barnes.”

“Punk.”

“Yeah, I am. Sorry.” But Steve’s throat tightened with emotion. “You need to eat, Bucky.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m fine, for now.”

“You’re not fine. I can practically see through you.” He tightened his grip on Bucky’s hand. “You should be on a stretcher right next to me, pal.”

“No. I’m fine, Stevie.”

“God, you’re stubborn.”

“Pot, meet kettle.” That was Natasha. Bucky moved his own hand aside and let her stroke Steve’s hair back from his brow. “Is this how you act when we’re not around?”

Steve laughed, ending it on a sniffle. His eyes were watery and filled with emotion. “I’ve been a hot mess without you guys.”

“Yeah, well, so has Barton. The big dummy. He’s been having all kinds of jitters for the past few days, worrying about you. He plans to have words when you get back home. He’s pretty upset.”

“Didn’t mean to worry his pretty little head.”

“Steve. C’mon. He cares about you.”

“Hey.” Sam hovered over Steve from the other side of the stretcher. Steve took his hand with his own free one and squeezed it.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Nat’s too cool to admit it, but she missed you,” Sam told him. 

“Oh, because you didn’t, huh?” Nat teased, and Sam smiled, but his eyes were wet.

“Oh, me? Not at all.”

“I missed you too, Sam.”

“It’s been too long… damn it, Rogers.” The EMTs looked impatient, but Steve was stable for the moment, and they stood aside while Sam bent down over him and enveloped him, breathing in his scent to ground himself.

“Still here, Wilson.” Sam’s sob was ragged. Nat pretended that she had something in her eye and looked away. “I love you, too.” And, there it was.

Their connection. Restored. Warm. Healing. Steve felt their emotions flood him. He was a part of them again. One of the pack. He felt present in the moment on this cold night, staring up at the stars and hearing the buzz of questions from the police and EMTs. Steve breathed them all in for a few minutes longer before the ambulance took him away.


	12. Housewarming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ororo renegotiates Bucky’s Blood Debt to Steve. And she comes bearing gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve come full circle. I’m including the beautiful menu that was part of milollita’s art contribution. She did a wonderful job. I’m once again thanking PRZed, and I’m recommending that you read her wonderful Stucky Big Bang story, too! It’s AWESOME!!!!!!

Bucky wondered when his boyfriend was going to come up for air from beneath all the members of his pack long enough for _Bucky_ to get some time alone to snuggle with him. Not any time soon, from the looks of things.

Werewolves. They were very … communal. Bucky knew that baselines loved to generalize vampires as brooding loners who wore all black and looked like goths and who listened to bad techno. Admittedly, not getting to go out during daylight hours lent itself to being a little lonely. But Bucky’s circle of friends in his coven was pretty tight, and they were definitely loyal. Ororo was the best sire he could have asked for. Y’know. If, you were going to _ask_ for that kinda thing. Okay. Maybe Bucky didn’t _ask_ to be sired, but… never mind. Ororo was still pretty darned great. Loving. Fiercely protective. Sassy.

Ororo sent Steve a pair of socks printed with little dogs on them. Just because. Bucky snickered at his expression when he pulled them out of the Amazon envelope, incredulous and amused.

“Do I have to wear these?”

“At least once. She’ll be tickled pink.”

Steve was learning that there were benefits of dating a guy whose sire was an Elder and the leader of their coven. Between the two of them, Ororo and T’Challa handled an immense fortune. Ororo was the textbook definition of “old money” ( _very_ old money). On those rare occasions where Bucky could convince Steve to visit him at Rapture when he was working, Ororo made sure his drinks and cover charge were free. She also made sure he had earplugs to dampen the worst of the blare from the speakers and to spare his enhanced, too-sensitive ears. 

Steve also became a favorite among the rest of the coven. He loved Tony’s gadgets and horrible music. Pepper began bringing him with her to her Pilates classes on those days where he got up before noon. Jubilee crowed that she finally wasn’t the shortest person in the club.

It was just hard to prize Steve away from the pack now that they had welcomed him back into the fold.

When Steve was discharged from the hospital (in the middle of the night), Steve received an unexpected warm welcome from Clint. Bucky had brought him a change of clothes in the hospital and drove him home, and Steve looked forward to just sleeping in his own bed. Bucky was game to stay the night to keep an eye on him, but neither of them were prepared for Steve’s apartment door to already be unlocked when they got back.

“The fuck…?” Steve frowned as he shoved the door open, listening to the hinge squeal. “What… Hey.” The light from the hallway shone inside, and the only other illumination in his apartment was from the open refrigerator door. Clint craned his neck around, and his eyes widened in surprise, and, Steve realized, relief.

“Jesus, I wondered when you were gonna get home!” Clint set down the gallon of milk on the counter and rushed out from the kitchen, and Steve braced himself for the hug-tackle that lifted his feet off the floor. Clint made a choked sound and clung to Steve. Steve huffed a strained laugh, but his eyes sparked and stung as his arms found their way around Clint. “Asshole. God, I was so worried.”

“No worse for wear, buddy. Howsabout putting me down?”

Clint shook his head silently, and Steve felt the tension in his body, and for the first time in months - longer - he _felt him_ again. Anguish. Regret. So much worry. His body felt hard and solid, and Steve felt the rush of emotions from him. Barton was so damned glad to have him back. “Okay. You don’t have to, yet.”

“I take it you know this guy?” Bucky asked softly. He watched them with a crooked little smile. 

“Nope. Total rando. He’s just squatting here,” Steve teased, but his voice was a little wobbly and uneven, and he hadn’t let go of Clint yet. He just absorbed the feelings of acceptance and joy from his old friend and realized he wasn’t alone anymore. The pack was a living presence inside Steve now that he was connected to the group’s consciousness again. 

“Lies. All lies. I’m awesome,” Clint rasped.

He released him and quickly spun around, heading back to Steve’s refrigerator. “I picked up a few things. Nat said you were coming home tonight. So, uh, yeah. Anyway.” Clint went back to putting the food away. Then he turned around again and eyed Bucky. “So. You’re the bloodsucker I smelled on Rogers.”

“No need to get that familiar, guy,” Bucky told him.

“Yeah, well. You wear too much cologne.”

Steve smothered a laugh. Bucky gave him an aggrieved look and pointed at Clint’s turned back, but Steve mouthed “calm down.”

Clint apparently had a field day fixing up Steve’s apartment in his absence. “I did a load of your laundry, buddy. It smelled like feet. Even washed your sheets.” He’d also spruced up the bathroom and kitchen. His whole apartment smelled like Pine-Sol and Comet. Steve could tell Clint had brought in his mail, too; it lay neatly stacked in his counter’s organizer.

“You didn’t have to do this.” Steve’s eyes were a little watery, but his smile’s wattage was so high that Bucky almost needed sunglasses. He just looked so _ecstatic_.

“Yeah? Well, too fucking bad, ‘cuz I did it, anyway. You’re not the boss of me.”

“Well, all right then. Be that way.”

Clint socked Steve in the shoulder, then picked him up in another smothering hug. He rocked a little on his feet once Clint set him back down and made way for the door.

“Better talk to Arnie,” Clint reminded him. “He’s wondering when you were planning to pay your rent.”

Steve’s smile faltered. “Him and me both.”

“Yeah, well. Later, Rogers.”

“Night, Barton.” 

 

Clint’s visit opened up the flood gates.

Over the next couple of nights, Steve’s pack made unannounced visits to his apartment. As soon as Bucky and Steve managed to sit down and scroll through their Netflix queue, someone without fail would knock on the door, and suddenly, there would be no room on the couch. Sam and Natasha at least showed up with beer, but again, they had no concept of personal space. As soon as Bucky returned to the living room with drinks for everybody, they stole his place beside Steve on the couch, flanking him on both sides. But, again, Bucky watched him looking so content and loved that he couldn’t hold it against them. Steve had been alone for so long. Now, he was back at the cool kids’ lunch table and holding court.

“Are you even feeding this guy?” Nat asked Bucky as she poked Steve’s side. He swatted at her hands, clearly ticklish, but he was loving the attention and close contact. “He’s all bones.”

“Working on it. He still owes me a dinner date.” Bucky gave her an innocent look. “If we could ever get some time _alone_.”

Sam had the temerity to stick his tongue out at him. “Finders keepers, buddy.”

“See, Bucky? That means I get to keep you,” Steve told him as he waved him back over. Bucky handed each of them a beer and settled himself between Steve’s knees on the floor as he poked a straw into his blood pouch. Bucky looped Steve’s leg down over his chest and kneaded his foot while they watched _Game of Thrones_. Steve let out a low whine of pleasure that made Nat and Sam roll their eyes.

It wasn’t awful, being piled together like this, Bucky decided. For one thing, he was _warm_. And Steve was so relaxed and happy. Bucky felt his contented vibes through their close contact. 

Nat and Sam were easy enough houseguests, but Bucky wasn’t prepared for their next drop-ins a couple of days later. Steve was in the shower while Bucky made him some dinner - Steve admitted to being a crappy cook, and despite the fact that Bucky hadn’t eaten solid food in _decades_ , he was handy in the kitchen - and he sighed in disgust at the knock at the door. “Really?” he grumbled as he threw the spatula aside and turned down the heat on the lamb burger patties in the skillet. Why did people always have to visit right in the middle of dinner? “We don’t want any,” Bucky sang aloud as he neared the door. “Look, this isn’t a great time,” he continued as he undid the dead bolts and chain lock. “We just got home, and…” Just as Bucky yanked open the door, a young woman stepped forward with a pleading expression. The man beside her wisely hung back, but he looked like he hoped just as badly that Bucky would be patient with them. 

“Is Steven here?” she asked Bucky. She glanced past him into the apartment, and her eyes scanned it as though it was familiar. She looked to be in about her early thirties and had hair as red as Natasha’s and large, soft green eyes. Bucky caught the faint tang of werewolf pheromones on them both. She spoke with a faint accent, possibly Scottish. 

“He’s indisposed, if you want to come back. We were just going to sit down to dinner. He was, anyway.”

She huffed at that. “We’d really like to see him. We won’t interrupt dinner.”

Bucky sighed. “There’s enough for two more.” Because it wasn’t like he was planning to eat any. “I’ll let him know you’re here, uh…”

“Rahne. And this is my husband, Jack.”

“Come on in.” Bucky stepped aside to let them inside. Jack was medium height with a rangy build and russet brown hair. He was older than his wife and had a patient air about him, while Rahne had an edgy, nervous energy.

“That smells yummy,” she told Bucky. “What is that, elk?”

“Lamb,” he corrected her.

“Nice,” Jack murmured. “Rare?”

“Uh. Yeah, they… they can be, if you want.” Rahne nodded eagerly in response, and Bucky went to the kitchen, lifted the lid and took out the burgers, which still dripped pinkish juices. He hoped Steve didn’t mind his dinner bleating back at him when he went to eat it. Rahne and Jack huddled close to each other on the couch.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Rahne began, “how long have you known Steve?”

“Just a few weeks.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” She paused, then, “So, he hasn’t had you with him for that long. I was hoping… that he wouldn’t have been alone for so long.”

“Don’t pry,” Jack chided, squeezing her hand where he held it in his lap.

“I don’t mean to. I’m just curious.” 

Just then, Steve’s voice called out from the back. “Would’ve been nice if someone had left me a dry towel where I could get to it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It was a common lament. “Hey, Stevie, we’ve got company.” And Steve emerged from the hallway, dressed in battered jeans and a soft gray shirt, hair still damp.

“I wasn’t expecting any…” His words drifted off at the sight of the couple on his couch, and Rahne immediately stood, releasing Jack’s hand. She fidgeted, tugging on her hands and smoothing her skirt. Her expression looked contrite. Regretful. Steve stood silently, but Bucky saw so many emotions flit over his face. He glanced at Bucky with worry in his eyes, pleading with him before he gave his guests his full attention again and stammered out a greeting.

“H-hey. It’s… it’s been a long time.”

“Steve. Hello. You’re… you’re looking well.” Rahne managed a smile, but it took effort, and she looked so fretful. She took a step toward Steve, then stopped, unsure of how to proceed. “You remember Jack?”

“Hey.” Steve waved to him, and Jack nodded and stood up. He placed a protective arm around Rahne, rubbing her shoulder soothingly, but her eyes filled, and a low sob escaped her.

“I’m so sorry, Steve!”

He shook his head emphatically. “No, don’t. Please, don’t, it’s… I’m the one who’s sorry, I’ve always been sorry, it was all my fault-”

“No! No, it wasn’t! It wasn’t, Steve, it wasn’t you. You tried your best, I know that now.” But Steve was still shaking his head, and Bucky felt his anguish, saw it in the hunched set of his shoulders. In an instant, tears slipped down his cheeks, which he wiped on his sleeve.

“I was supposed to protect him…”

“You couldn’t help what happened! I know that now, Steven! Please!”

“We understand, Steve,” Jack added, and he looked emotional, too. Rahne’s cheeks were red and she bit her lip and sniffled back more tears. 

“He was a good boy,” Steve told them. “He trusted me. He was the best, and I failed him.”

“No, Steve,” Rahne argued as she hurried forward, now, and reached for Steve, gripping his arms. “No, you didn’t. We didn’t know about Victor. None of us knew. Teir wasn’t the first child that he…” She couldn’t force out the rest of the words, and she enveloped Steve in her arms instead. He was sobbing, shaking his head, but he accepted her embrace, looking for all the world like a man who felt he didn’t deserve it. “Victor took him from us. He wasn’t fit to lead us, and I’m so sorry he made you suffer for what he did. It’s our fault you’ve been alone so long, and you didn’t deserve it, Steve.”

That made him fall even further apart in her arms. “He n-never sh-should have been taken from you!”

“You shouldn’t have had to be alone,” she repeated. “With no pack. With no family.”

“We always wondered if you were all right. Even in the beginning,” Jack admitted hoarsely. “Even when… even when we hated you. We always wanted to know if you were all right.”

Steve’s eyes squeezed shut, and he slowly surrendered his arms, wrapping them around Rahne. She rocked him and rubbed his back. “I never should have blamed you. It wasn’t your fault.”

Bucky’s own eyes sparked, but he went back into the kitchen and continued making dinner, finding plates and utensils. He felt his chest knot at the anguish and grief that consumed them, growing unchecked for so long because of a misunderstanding and Victor’s deception. And because of Alexander Pierce’s greed that allowed him to believe that a child’s life was forfeit for the sake of profit. 

“I knew I’d never shepherd anyone again after I left the pack. I wasn’t worthy, anyway.”

“You’re worthy, Steve. Don’t say that.”

“She’s right.” Jack held his wife while she clung to Steve. And Steve just accepted it, craving the comfort and forgiveness they offered. 

“He would have started high school this year,” Rahne sniffled. “He loved drawing, just like you.” And that just made Steve’s sobbing increase in intensity as he clutched at her. Rahne rocked him. “It’s all right. It’s all right, Steve. Please believe me when I say that we’re so, so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. I’ve wanted to apologize for so long. Nothing I could do can make it up to you…”

“You don’t have to.”

They gradually disengaged long enough to go to the couch. Bucky plated the food and set it on the dining room table and brought each of them a glass of water to fortify themselves. Steve smiled gratefully at him, eyes bloodshot and cheeks blotchy, but Bucky adored that face. And Steve was finally getting the reconciliation he’d only been able to hope for. It was worth a little uninterrupted quality time for him to get it. 

“Natasha told us everything,” Jack explained. “She said you still lived here.”

“And she also told us what they did to you. Steven, I’m so glad you made it home!” 

“Almost all in one piece,” he joked, but Bucky caught his eye and shook his head. _Too soon, pal_. Steve mouthed _Sorry_.

“When I think of what Teir would have gone through,” Jack said. His voice was hard.

“He wasn’t alive when Victor brought him there,” Steve assured him. Cold comfort, indeed.

Rahne released a shaky breath, then nodded. “You’re safe. They can’t take anyone else.”

“No. They can’t.” Steve squeezed her hand. 

“Pierce is going away for a long time,” Bucky mentioned from the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of wine infused with type O positive, a nice cabernet. “He won’t hurt anyone again.”

“Are you guys hungry?” Steve asked as he dried his eyes. “My boyfriend’s a really good cook. God, I’m the worst… this is my boyfriend, Bucky Barnes.” Bucky hurried forward and greeted them properly after a hasty sip of wine. “Sorry I’m such a bad host.”

“No. You’ve made us feel welcome,” Rahne told him. “And your boyfriend isn’t bad looking. If those burgers taste as good as they smell, he’s a keeper.”

Bucky choked on his wine.

*

Natasha surrendered the flash drive to the court during the investigation. The trial lasted for almost a week before the jury found Pierce guilty of torture, fraudulent medical practices, illegal research and procurement of organs and blood, coercion, _murder_... his rap sheet was miles long. The jury was sickened by the footage of surgeries and dismemberment. Essex and McCoy’s medical journals would have indicted them both if they had survived. Security camera feeds were cut off in the hours following Pierce’s subjects’ escape from the facility. The judge ruled their deaths “unfortunate” and the investigation was closed. Piercetech Health Systems’ stock collapsed in the market, and the building was put up for sale. 

Essex and McCoy’s reports also fingerprinted Brock Rumlow as responsible for making the subjects comply, for “evoking a panic response” and exposing them to stressors in the form of torture. Brock was sentenced to fifty years to life in a maximum security prison specially equipped to contain enhanced prisoners. Brock wasn’t the only lycan in the prison yard. The prison’s pack was firmly established, and Brock, for all intents and purposes, was a maverick.

Brock Rumlow cursed the day that McCoy gave him the lycan serum and that he ever met Alexander Pierce. Spending the night of the full moon inside a jail cell was torture.

His cellmate despised him, wondering how on God’s green earth he’d ended up with a crier.

*

Steve visited Arnie’s office on the first floor of their apartment building. The older, balding landlord glanced up at Steve in confusion. “What can I do for you, Rogers?”

“Uh. I came to pay my rent. I know it’s late-”

“No, it ain’t.” Arnie thumbed through his ledger and ran his finger down the lines. “There. You’re all paid up for this month.”

“I didn’t-”

“Cash. Your friend. He came in here and paid it in cash. Had kinda long, shaggy hair and a big dimple in his chin? Just came up to me in the hallway and said it was to cover your rent.”

Steve felt a hot flush run over him. “Oh.”

“Hey, if you move him in, he has to sign on to the lease. I have to credit check him,” Arnie reminded him. “Seems like a decent sort, though.”

“He really is.”

“As long as he doesn’t blare the volume on his TV like Barton does. I’m sick of hearing ‘Dog Cops’ through my wall.”

“He’s quiet,” Steve promised. “Uh. We haven’t talked about the possibility of him moving in, he’s already got a pretty nice place.”

“That’s fine. All right. I’ve got things to do.”

“Right. Sorry. G’night.”

“Night, Steve.”

 

Jonah read Steve the riot act when he came back to work and threatened him with another write-up. Steve vented to Bucky about it, pacing and fretting until Bucky reminded him that he’d aggravate his ulcer. He joined him at the kitchen counter, wrapping strong arms around Steve’s waist from behind. Bucky’s skin was cool and his hair smelled good, with herbal notes of sandalwood and lemongrass from his fancy shampoo. 

“Don’t worry about Jameson, okay?”

“I can’t lose this job,” Steve told him. “It has benefits, and it’s just enough to get me by every month.”

“You won’t lose it,” Bucky murmured into his neck. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got you covered, Stevie.”

“How?’ Steve scoffed. “You gonna fix up my resume and help me find something else when I get canned?”

“Nope. Got a better idea.”

Steve turned slightly within his embrace. “Bucky. What are you planning to do?”

“Nothing much,” he said innocently. His eyes twinkled down at Steve. “Don’t worry your cute little head.”

“I’m not cute,” Steve argued, but his voice sounded pleased.

“Are, too.” Bucky kissed his nose just to annoy him. He tightened his arms around Steve’s waist. “You don’t have to worry about Jonah.”

“About that,” Steve mentioned. “I went to go pay my rent today.”

“Always a good idea if you don’t want a nasty letter on your door,” Bucky agreed as he nuzzled Steve’s cheek. Steve made an exasperated sound, but he toyed with the buttons on Bucky’s shirt and palmed Bucky’s slow heartbeat. 

“And he said someone already snuck down there and took care of it. In cash.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘sneaking.’ I walked right in the front door.”

“Bucky!”

“What?”

“You don’t have to do that. I can get by on my own. I don’t expect you to pay my bills.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Yes, it _is_.”

“No. See, here’s the thing. I like hanging out in your apartment. Kinda works in my favor if you don’t get kicked out of it.”

“Is this about the Blood Debt?”

“Nope.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh. It’s hard to make rent when you keep getting kidnapped. Kinda crimps a guy’s plan to keep the lights turned on, too. I paid your internet, power and cell bill, too, pal. Hope you don’t mind.”

“I _do_ mind! BUCKY!” Now Steve looked put out, and he gave Bucky’s shoulder a sharp swat. “That’s not up to you!”

“Stevie? Hello? You saved my life.”

“Buck-”

“Twice.”

“That’s… c’mon, Buck-”

“You fed me. You protected me. You kept me warm. You gave me shelter during the daylight hours. And you shared your blood.” Bucky’s voice sounded emotional and uneven. “You don’t know how much that means. I wanted to die. I was ready to give up, and there you were. My Stevie. You brought me back from the edge.” Bucky’s eyes bore into Steve’s, and Steve’s hands slid up Bucky’s chest, reaching up to cradle his face in his palms.

“I wasn’t leaving without you, jerk.”

“Nobody’s ever done anything like that for me. Let me take care of you. Let me be good to you, okay? Not because of a debt. Because I care about you. Because you’re a good man, Steve Rogers.”

“Good man, huh?” Steve’s eyes flitted away and he shook his head. His laugh was bitter. “I’m not much of a man. I’m an animal, pretty much.”

“Stevie. Don’t. Just, just don’t. Okay?” Bucky nudged Steve’s forehead with his own. “Hey. Look at me. Listen to me. Okay? Don’t tell me you’re ‘not much of a man.’ Like hell you’re not. You’re the most amazing man I know. Don’t talk shit about the guy I’m crazy about.”

Steve looked down again, but his eyes shyly met Bucky’s again, and a smile teased the corners of his mouth. His cheeks flushed and he tugged a lock of Bucky’s hair. “Quit it. You’re so… God, Bucky.”

“I am, y’know. M’crazy about you.”

“Buck-”

Bucky leaned down and kissed him, and Steve sighed into the caress. His fingers curled into Bucky’s hair, gently scratching his scalp. Bucky tasted him and tugged the hem of Steve’s shirt out from his waistband. His cool hands stroked Steve’s skin, and Bucky was thrilled to feel how warm he was. Steve’s body arched into him, and he opened for Bucky, letting his tongue slip inside the lush heat of his mouth. They were flush against each other, filling each other’s hollows and listening to each other breathe. The kisses were lazy and deep. Steve felt his body stirring to life as Bucky’s mouth trailed down his cheek and jaw to his neck. Bucky’s tongue swirled over his pulse and the taut, delicate cords of muscle, and Steve shuddered against him.

“That feels too good when you do that.” And, Steve wouldn’t admit, there was something thrilling about the possibility of those fangs making an appearance, and the stomach-fluttering anticipation of Bucky taking a little nip out of him. 

“Mmmmmmmm…”

“You. You… can, you know.”

“Uh-uh.” Bucky shook his head and went back to lapping at his skin. “M’good. I ate already.”

“Just wanted to put that out there. Just in case.”

“Stevie. You’re my boyfriend. You’re not dinner.”

“How about dessert, then?”

Bucky’s answering smile was wicked as he bent down, scooped Steve up and wrapped his legs around his waist. He carried Steve back to the bedroom and proceeded to demonstrated to Steve how long he could wait before coming up for air. Steve’s favorite thing about having a vampire for a boyfriend?

Zero. Gag. Reflex.

*

 

The following day found Steve in Jonah’s office. His wall clock said it was a few minutes past three. Steve sat there with a knotted guts, sweating and anxious. Jonah called him in early to talk with him, and it didn’t look good. Jonah finished a phone call just as Steve walked in, and he sighed as he set down the receiver. Jonah templed his hands. “Rogers.”

“Yes?”

“It’s been brought to my attention…”

Those words always made Steve’s heart hammer in his chest. No good sentence ever started with those words.

“...that you’re a lycan.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“We have equal opportunity guidelines in place at this newspaper, Rogers. It makes a little more sense to me now, when you never wanted to work the day shift. I can respect that.”

Steve felt some of his tension loosening.

“But you’ve still taken too many unscheduled days off. I can’t play favorites, Rogers.”

“Wait… what?” Panic gripped Steve.

“I’m going to have to terminate you. I’m sorry. Rules are rules.”

“But… you remember that I was taken from here, right?” Being kidnapped didn’t count?

“I do. But you didn’t clear it with HR to give me a return to work date.”

Steve’s blood pounded in his ears. “Are you kidding me? I was _kidnapped_.”

“Rogers. Don’t make this harder than it is.”

“Jonah… please. Please don’t do this.” Steve felt sick. The floor swam around him.

“Rogers, I’m sorry, but… what the?” Jonah looked past Steve and out the window. He rose from his desk and peeked through the mini-blinds. Steve white-knuckled his chair and tried to compose himself and find the magic words that would stop his boss from canning him. “Who the hell is that?” He turned to Steve and gestured for him to come to the window. “Who is that?” Steve numbly got up and joined him and peered through the slats.

He saw a sleek black Rolls Royce down in the street, pulled up to the curb. He saw a striking Black man step out, dressed in an expensive suit. He held out an umbrella and opened it, which wouldn’t have been that unusual if there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He reached down into the open door and reached for the hand of a strikingly tall woman dressed in black and wearing a wide-brimmed hat and an opaque veil. All of her skin was covered, preventing Steve from identifying her, but her walk was familiar. Steve and Jonah both craned their faces around for a better look. “Looks like they’re coming in here,” Jonah mused.

“Who do you know that drives a car like that?” Steve asked, trying to distract him from firing him.

“I don’t run in those circles, despite popular opinion, Rogers. Back to what I was saying. Security will escort you out once you clean out your desk. Get your exit paperwork from HR.”

“Mr. Jameson…”

“Don’t make this harder than it is, Rogers.”

“Mr. Jameson?” Betty’s voice chirped through the intercom. “You have a guest. The receptionist just signed them in downstairs.”

“Who?” Jonah demanded.

“A… Mr. and Mrs. T’Challa?”

“Who?” he repeated, but Steve felt a jolt of shock.

“They said they’re here to see you about one of your staff.”

“One of my staff?”

“Yes. Steve Rogers,” she told him. 

Jonah stared at Steve accusingly. “Who are they to you, Rogers?”

“Just… friends of a friend,” Steve told him. “I don’t know what this is about.”

“Then, you’d better stay put.” Steve sat back down, trying to squelch the nervous butterflies in his gut. His skin broke out in a rash of cold sweat while Jonah waited by the window, rocking on his heels. Steve nearly jumped out of his skin as the office door opened to admit Betty, who looked flustered.

“Here we are,” Betty told the two visitors. The woman swept inside and reached up for her hat. Ororo smiled at Steve reassuringly. “Hullo, Steve. T’Challa, would you pull those blinds, please?”

“Yes, love.” He made his way around Jonah’s desk without excusing himself to Jameson, who looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Excuse me? This is _my_ office.”

“It’s quaint,” Ororo murmured. “Jonah, is it?”

“Yes. That’s what it says on the door.”

“You’re the publisher of this fine newspaper, then.”

“Again, see the door.”

“That’s not how I’d like to hear you address my wife,” T’Challa warned. He pulled up a chair for Ororo to sit and took her hat, setting it down on the small table by the door. 

“If you were the news reporter that you claim to be, sir, than you would have done some investigating and not made assumptions about your employee,” Ororo told him. “I noticed that you covered the Piercetech trial? On the front page, no less?”

“Yes. Of course. Our readers have the right to know what was happening in our community, right under their noses. If a company closes down because they’ve been running a black market for human organs, you can bet I’m going to run that story, miss.”

“Mrs.,” she corrected him. “Steve was taken from your property. Abducted.”

Jonah looked uncomfortable. “I realize that.”

“Your security was lax, then, if they let it happen.”

“Those men had weapons!”

“How did they make it onto the roof from the inside?” she challenged. Steve watched Jonah squirm and felt slightly vindicated. He started to relax a notch. “That’s sloppy, Jonah.”

“Take that up with the owners of the building!” Jonah stormed at her.

“Oh, I shall. Back to the trial, however. Steven was called as a witness.” Ororo stared over at Steve fondly. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Uh…”

“I didn’t notice him mentioned in the article,” Ororo wondered. “Perhaps you did that to protect the names of the people that Pierce exploited and tortured?”

“T-tortured.” Jonah stared at Steve, who tried to remain composed, but the word made him uneasy. “They tortured you?”

He nodded stiffly, then stared down at the floor.

“Steve has been living under extreme stress. The past few weeks have disrupted his life and his safety. I know you may have preconceived notions about lycans, Jonah.”

“No! No, not at all!”

“I get the impression that you do. Lycans are vulnerable. They feel pain. They have _rights_. And they’re _human_.” Ororo gave him a brittle smile, and her blue eyes glowed a shimmering crimson for a moment. “You will make accommodations for Steven.”

“But-”

“You will give him additional time off to recuperate from his ordeal. With pay and without interruption of his health benefits.”

Jonah opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again, looking like a fish.

“And you will remove this occurrence from his records. The circumstances for his absences were beyond his control.” Ororo stood to her full height, and Jonah was embarrassed when he noticed that she topped him by an inch. “I know you have a business to run, Jonah, but your business depends on your employees. They’re what make a business great. They are its life blood, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jonah’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. “C-certainly. Ma’am.” Jonah reached for the termination letter he’d been about to hand Steve and threw it into the shredder bucket. “Let’s put this behind us. Rogers… er, Steve. Welcome back. It’s… we’re lucky to have you back. After your ordeal.”

Steve was so tempted to tell him _Didn’t know you cared_ , but he limited himself to a curt smile and a nod. “Thank you, sir.”

“T’Challa, my hat, please.”

“Steve, walk me out.”

Steve gestured for Ororo to precede him out the door, and he hurried after her and T’Challa without sparing his boss a backward look. 

“Are you all right, dear?” she asked him as they headed for the elevator.

“I think I just pissed my pants.”

*

“I’m not letting you have these pajamas back,” Bucky warned Steve as he lounged in the smooth, blue plaid flannel bottoms. “I never wanna take ‘em off.”

“Oh, they’re comin’ off, pal,” Steve warned him, grinning as he brought over their snacks, a mug of red hibiscus and rose hip tea for Bucky and a bowl of popcorn for himself. “Don’t get too attached to ‘em.”

Bucky gave him a wicked look. He leaned up from the couch and met Steve halfway as he leaned down to kiss him. Bucky’s hands slipped under Steve’s shirt as he teased his lips, and his desire for Steve sparked in his veins. “You like me out of these pants?”

“Mmmm-hmmmm.”

Things were just getting interesting when they heard a knock on the door. Bucky and Steve groaned in unison and disappointment. “Aw, man!”

“I’ll get it,” Steve told him as he gave Bucky one more quick peck. Bucky made grabby hands for him as he hurried off to answer the door. “Coming,” he insisted as he undid the locks. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hullo,” Ororo greeted. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No. No, we were just… unwinding.”

“It’s my night off,” Bucky reminded her dryly. Ororo chuckled and nodded.

“I know. I haven’t forgotten that. I just wanted to make a quick visit and drop off something for Steve.” She handed him a large, brown paper-wrapped package. Which… smelled heavenly.

“What is it?”

“Prime rib,” Ororo told him cheerfully. “They were having a special on it. Should be good for a few dinners.”

“You… you brought me meat?”

“We need to feed you up a bit. You’re looking too thin, sweetheart.” Ororo patted his cheek fondly. “Ooh, and one more thing.” She reached into her Michael Kors bag and pulled out an envelope. “It’s a gift card. For that new restaurant that opened up downtown. It’s nice. They have some nice lycan-friendly options and use locally sourced beef.”

 

“That’s… wow.” Steve looked incredulous but pleased. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. I wanted to.” Steve shifted the roast to his other arm while Ororo hugged him and left a lipstick mark on his cheek when she kissed him. “Thank you for saving James. You don’t know how much that means to me. He’s like a son to me. And for the record, so are you.”

Steve felt his throat close up with sentiment. “That’s… wow. Thank you again.”

Ororo patted him again. “Do you have anymore of that tea?”

“Oh, sure! Make yourself at home!”

That was how Steve came to find himself playing a rousing game of Scrabble with his boyfriend and his sire, who loved tea and triple word scores. Once you got past Ororo’s initially chilly demeanor, she was a sweetheart, and she genuinely loved Bucky. They played and laughed and chatted through the night. By four AM, Steve was finally yawning, and Ororo mentioned that dawn was approaching soon and that she had better pack it in.

“So. Before I go, I just wanted to mention something. About your Blood Debt,” Ororo told Bucky. Steve stiffened at the words.

“Do we have to discuss this now?”

“It doesn’t bear much discussion,” she told Bucky. “I just wanted to let you know that the Elders and I discussed it, and if the two of you mutually agree that it can be revoked, then I won’t enforce it.”

“Wait… what?” Bucky did a double take, and Ororo smiled at him tenderly.

“You’ve honored the debt with your devotion to him. The two of you are very transparent. You almost never leave him. You protect his best interests without having to be reminded or needing any urging from me.”

“He’s still done more for me than I could ever repay,” Bucky said humbly.

“You don’t have to repay me, Buck.” Steve reached for Bucky’s hand and laced their fingers together. “I’ll never leave you behind. You know that, right? No matter how long I live, you’re stuck with me.”

The suggestion of Steve’s mortality pierced Bucky’s heart, but he nodded quickly, throat tight. “You’re stuck with me too, punk.”

“Don’t forget to buy a meat thermometer for the roast,” Ororo suggested.

“I’ll put it on the list,” Steve assured her before he joined her at the door for a last goodnight. He hugged her tightly, feeling her dwarf him and hearing her low, pleased chuckle.

“Time for bed. I need my beauty rest. Good night, boys.”

“Night, ‘Roro,” Bucky called from the living room. Steve returned her wave before locking up. He huffed a low laugh and shook his head. 

“What’s up, Rogers?”

“You really are stuck with me. You know that, right?”

“I was kind of hoping so,” Bucky told him.

“Just so you know.”

“C’mere.” Steve joined him by the edge of the couch, walking into his arms and kissing him long and deep. His palms slid over Bucky’s backside, skimming over the soft flannel. 

“I’m going to have to take those pants back,” he murmured against Bucky’s lips.

“Oh, that’s how it is?”

“That’s how it is,” Steve told him as he undid the ties and eased them off Bucky’s hips until they dropped to the floor. As he kissed Bucky, he shifted, going transitional and furry. “But I’ll still keep you warm.”

 

FIN.


End file.
